


Ace of Hearts

by PilotPig



Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Movie: Batman Beyond: Return of the Joker, SEE INSIDE FOR FULL LIST OF TRIGGER WARNINGS PLEASE, The first few chapters aren't too graphic but it does get more intense as it goes on, Whump, Whumptober, so please keep that in mind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:28:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 64,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27311890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PilotPig/pseuds/PilotPig
Summary: Timothy Drake is his father’s son.That is, until he isn’t.What is and is not has become more than a little complicated lately.After Tim's horrific three-week ordeal with the Joker, the entire is family is left reeling. Tim isn’t sure who he is anymore, much less who he used to be. He’s supposed to be a detective, and detectives solve mysteries, but perhaps, all these years, the only one standing between him and the truth was Tim himself.(Basically, if BTAS’ Joker Junior storyline happened in the comics)Updates every other Saturday! :)
Relationships: Barbara Gordon & Dick Grayson, Bart Allen & Tim Drake & Kon-El | Conner Kent & Cassie Sandsmark, Stephanie Brown/Tim Drake, Teen Titans - Relationship, The shipping is light/not really important, Tim Drake & Barbara Gordon, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Everyone, Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Kon-El | Conner Kent, batfam - Relationship
Comments: 102
Kudos: 90





	1. Tim

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Coarse language, Violence, Mental illness, Torture, PTSD, Anxiety, Panic attack, Depression, Self-harm, Suicide ideation, Suicide attempt, Drug abuse, Traumatic brain injury, Brain damage, Nerve damage, Scars, Epilepsy, Seizure, Electrocution, Nightmare, Night terror, Skin problems, Vomit, Kidnapping, Child abuse, Child neglect, Domestic violence, Firearms/Guns, Spinal cord injury, Missing person, Asplenia, Medical inaccuracy (I tried my best, but probably messed up), Sexual violence (implied/minor), Daddy issues, Animal cruelty, post-RHATO25  
> (If I need to add more later, I will tag the relevant chapter(s), but these should cover almost everything.)
> 
> For context, the general cut-off from the canon timeline is September 2018, except removing Tim’s kidnapping by Dr. Oz because I am not dealing with future Bat-Tim in this fic. For further context, chapter one begins shortly after Batman (2016) #50 (Catwoman dumps Bruce at the altar), RHATO (2016) #25-7, and from there I diverge even more from the canon plot. (Also I’m not killing off Roy Harper because why kill him at all bro; man deserves a break.) I tried to have somewhat of a Rebirth-compliant timeline, but please don’t get too hung up on it, because I’m sure there are errors somewhere lmao 
> 
> That being said, please enjoy and feel free to leave a comment! :D

The Cave is empty when I arrive, save for the bats.  
  
It still smells like Alfred’s lemon and thyme polish, though, so he’s probably been down here to clean in the past couple hours— any longer, and the smell of the bats overpowers any of Alfred’s perfumes. It’s still a bit strange being in the Cave alone, but they’ve never said anything against it so far, even when I’ve used the supercomputer without asking, so I’m sure it’s okay.  
  
I sit in Bruce’s chair and log in. I’m guessing Bruce got held up at work, or maybe he’s with his latest girlfriend. The sun’s already set, so either way he’ll be here soon.  
  
I’ll research what I can about the evening news in the meantime, because I have a feeling he’s not going to let me work this case once he finds out about the probable involvement of the Joker. Or at least, that’s the GCPD’s current hypothesis regarding the three dogs dressed like jesters they found by the Harbor.  
  
The photo they used in the news broadcast was heavily censored due to gore, but plenty of civilians must have taken photos of the scene and posted them on social media by now. I just need to find them.  
  
The broadcast plays again as I look for photos. “—costumes referencing playing cards— King of Spades, Queen of Clubs, and Ace of Hearts. Unfortunately, it is unclear how long the dogs have been trapped in the ditch, and neither King nor Queen survived the ordeal. Commissioner Jim Gordon suspects the Joker’s involvement. The question is, is this the punchline, or just the set-up?”  
  
Oh, crap. These are not nice photos to look at.  
  
It’s obvious that Ace has cannibalized King and Queen, though it’s unclear from just the photo whether they were already dead or if Ace mauled them to eat them. Then again, I guess they’re animals; it’s possible they just had a fight, or two of them happened to die, and then the last one got hungry. It makes me a little queasy, but I figure if I want to be a good Robin then I need to get used to a little blood and guts. If I can’t even look at animals’ injuries, then how am I supposed to help if a human is hurt?  
  
“Timothy?”  
  
I look up, lower the volume of the news. “Oh, hi, Alfred. I’m just waiting for Bruce.”  
  
“Yes, unfortunately he had a late meeting he couldn’t get out of.” Alfred looks at the screen then. “Oh, dear. Poor chaps.”  
  
“Yeah. The police think maybe the Joker did it, but I have no idea why he would bother.” I try to be casual about it, so that Alfred won’t worry too much. He knows I’m not overeager to face the Joker after what he did to poor Jason Todd; I wouldn’t have gotten the job if I wasn’t sufficiently cautious. But I don’t want him to think I’m especially scared, either.  
  
After all, if there’ll ever be a time Batman needs Robin, it’ll be when he faces the Joker again. I need to show him that I’m as prepared as possible if I even want a chance to come along at all.  
  
“Well, sir,” Alfred says, “it’s not uncommon for even the most hardened Gothamites to have a soft spot for canines. Perhaps that was what the Joker was aiming at.”  
  
“Maybe.” I suppose it’s not too far-fetched. People are desensitized to violence against other people, especially in a place like Gotham, where local burglaries and homicides are just a fact of life. But when people see an innocent animal suffering, somehow their hearts move in a way they don’t for other humans. I’m not sure if that should bolster my faith in humanity or weaken it.  
  
“I once had a dog, back in England,” Alfred says. Immediately, I straighten. Alfred’s rarely talked about his past with me, but from what I’ve gathered over the past six months, he’s had a very adventurous life. “His name was Cracker. A well-bred German Shepherd, he was. Saved my life once, you know.”  
  
I lean forward. “Really?”  
  
“Oh, yes. Alien invasion, 1938, bit an extraterrestrial bugger right on the antennae.”  
  
I laugh. “Come on, that’s the year of the infamous War of the Worlds broadcast, Alfie! You’ll have to do better than that!”  
  
He’s a science fiction lover, like me, and he’s always bemoaning how young people don’t appreciate the classics anymore. And while I am usually on the verge of a nap in English class, if it’s a _science fiction_ classic, then I _do_ appreciate.  
  
“I was going to interrupt there.” Bruce emerges from the shadows, already dressed for tonight. “But it looks like you caught Alfred in the act.”  
  
“Indeed.” Alfred winks. “Splendid work, detective.”  
  
Bruce smirks slightly. “Though maybe your first red flag should have been that there’s no way Alfred was _born_ in 1938.”  
  
“Hey, he’s spry; who am I to question it?” I joke, though I take careful note of the advice.  
  
Bruce turns to the computer. “The dogs will have to wait. I’ve got something else pressing for tonight.”  
  
It turns out to be a very uneventful stakeout, apparently waiting for one of Two Face’s top men to make a move. While we wait basically the whole night, Bruce drills me on tactics he’s taught me, plus his big rule— no risks for Robin. I always obey, because I know he’s so protective because of Jason. His son’s death is a specter that clings to him always, floats around him like a dense fog. I refuse to add to his burden.  
  
Nothing happens that night, so I can’t help but wonder if he actually just brought me out here to test my knowledge and my patience. Then again, I know by now that dead ends are common, too, even for the World’s Greatest Detective, so it’s possible the stakeout really was mostly a stakeout. Still, it’s entirely possible it was just to keep me away from the potential Joker case. I won’t say anything without more definitive evidence, though.  
  
It’s four a.m., now, and I sneak home through my bedroom window, even though no one’s home at this hour. Dad has had motion-activated security cameras by the front door and the first floor windows for years, and I don’t want the house caretaker to get a notification. I know Dad has never bothered to check the notifications, since I used to leave through the front door all the time to photograph Batman and Robin, but I can’t be sure about Mrs. MacIlyver’s security habits. I’m not going to take any chances. No risks for Robin.  
  
The next night, I let myself into Wayne Manor as usual, but I hear barking as I approach the grandfather clock that leads down to the Batcave. Sure enough, when I descend, Alfred is decked out in full padded bodygear— with a huge mutt on a very, very, very taut leash. The dog is snapping and snarling, and drool drips from its canines. It’s frankly pretty scary. And— wait a minute—  
  
“Uh...Alfred?” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. “Is that the Joker’s dog?”  
  
“Not anymore!” Alfred grunts, trying to hold the dog back from attacking me. “Adopted the fellow from the shelter! They were going to put him down! Can you believe it?”  
  
Yes, but I don’t say that. “Um, he has his shots, right?”  
  
“Of course, of course,” Alfred says. He’s sweating from the effort of holding the dog back. “Would you like to come pet him?”  
  
“Uh…”  
  
The dog gnashes its teeth at me, the growl low in his throat, and at this point there’s a puddle of drool on the floor. I want to help Alfred, but I have no idea what to do.  
  
“Robin,” Batman calls from somewhere in the cave. “I don’t need you tonight.”  
  
I look around for him, try to apply the training he’s had me do, but I can’t find him. “Are you sure?”  
  
“Positive. If you want to stay, though, help Alfred with that thing. He _insists_ on keeping it.”  
  
Alfred sniffs. “If I recall, _sir_ , it is not our way to turn away those in need just because they may be a bit _damaged._ ”  
  
Batman doesn’t answer, and I hear the Batmobile starting, taking off into the night. No doubt in my mind now that he’s trying to keep me off the potential Joker case, but probably he’s still not sure if the Joker is really involved or not. If he had a solid hunch, he would have told me why he wanted me to stay and tried to convince me it was for the best— well, maybe it’s more like I _hope_ he at least trusts me that much by now.  
  
I’ll let myself hope, for now, at least. The dog is an immediate problem and I don’t want Alfred to get hurt trying to wrangle it. Still, I’ve never had a pet before, since Mom was allergic to fur (and called our neighbor’s hairless cat an ‘angry prune’), so I know next to nothing about dogs. “Uh...what do you want me to do, Alfred?”  
  
“Well— OOMF!” Alfred yanks the leash. “Open the door to that crate, please.”  
  
There’s a wire dog crate with a plastic bottom nearby, so I move it closer and open the door. Alfred instructs me to throw a treat in there, so I snatch the bag from the table and throw a piece of jerky into the crate. Still, Alfred basically has to wrestle the dog into the crate, and it ignores the food, just growling and barking at us.  
  
“I’ve got my work cut out for me on this one…” Alfred says, wiping the sweat off his brow with a handkerchief.  
  
“Yeah…” I can’t imagine what the poor dog’s been through with the Joker as a master, plus the obvious hell of being trapped in a ditch for days with no food or water. I wonder if he’ll ever be able to overcome all the trauma. “Maybe you should hire a dog trainer?”  
  
“Oh, don’t you worry, Timothy,” Alfred pats my shoulder with a sweaty hand. “I’ve experience. Cracker was a rescue, too, you know.”  
  
So he wasn’t kidding about having a dog. Or maybe he still is and this is an extended joke, now. Either way, apparently he looks at this dog and thinks he can handle it. Then again, he also handles his son’s vigilante crusade better than anyone else I could imagine, so I suppose he must know a thing or two about guiding rage and fear into productivity.  
  
“I’m going to go change,” Alfred says, draping a blanket over the top of the crate so that only the front and back are exposed to the air. I’m guessing it makes the dog feel more secure. “Just feed him as many treats as he likes while I’m gone. He’s terribly thin.”  
  
I look at the dog’s bared teeth again. “Uh…”  
  
“Don’t be afraid, Lad. Ace is only lashing out out of fear.” With that, Alfred leaves me with the dog and a bag of treats.  
  
Cautiously, I sit in front of the crate. I take my mask off, put it in my belt. Slowly, I extend a treat towards the dog— Ace. If he’s scared, I don’t want to scare him more with sudden movements. Honestly, I’m scared, too, but I’m probably not nearly as scared as Ace, after everything he’s been through. I speak softly. “Hi, boy…You’re a good doggie...”  
  
I manage to drop some treats into the crate without getting bitten, though it’s not for lack of trying on Ace’s part. He’s still more interested in growling at me than eating. Maybe I’m doing something wrong? I take out my phone, search how to approach aggressive, abused dogs.  
  
There’s a lot about dominating them physically to essentially show them who’s boss, but I don’t like that for a multitude of reasons— first, no way I’m letting Ace out of the crate and touching him right now, second, if he’s scared, I don’t see how that’ll help, especially if I accidentally hurt him in the process. Another glance at the dog convinces me I couldn’t hurt him before he tore my throat out, but still. I guess maybe dogs work differently than people? But even if that’s the case, I don’t have a domineering personality, so I’m not sure if I could pull it off even if I wanted to.  
  
Another person suggests showing the dog your back, and don’t make direct eye contact with it— it shows you’re not a threat. Okay, let’s give that a shot.  
  
I go a little further from the crate and sit facing away from him, so he can still see me but I’m not trying to force an interaction. He’s still growling at me, but it seems slightly less aggressive. Then again, maybe that’s my wishful thinking. I read up more on dog behavior and training on my phone. Geez, there’s so much to know…  
  
When I wake up, I forget where I am for a second. Somehow, I ended up falling asleep on the cold stone floor of the Batcave, _with_ all that barking from Alfred’s new rescue. Oh, right! The dog!  
  
I turn my head slowly. Instantly, Ace is scrambling up and barking again. I turn my face away from him, but it’s too late; I’ve already set him off. Still, it was quiet before then, and Ace stood up, which means that at some point, he’d relaxed enough to lie down and stop making such a racket. I’ll have to report it to Alfred.  
  
It’s not much, I guess, but it’s a start.  
  
~~~  
  
Alfred opens the back door and lets Ace into the yard. Immediately, he pees on a bush, then paws at the cone around his neck. It’s been two months since he was rescued, and he needs the cone so that he won’t scratch at the mange scabs that are still healing on his face. He’s allowed about most of the Manor, now, but he usually sticks to Alfred’s bedroom, the kitchen, and this small section of the backyard. His tail is still between his legs all the time. Poor guy.  
  
It’s starting to get warmer out— Dick _won’t stop_ saying that spring has sprung— but it’s still cool enough for tea. Alfred sits at the picnic table and sips his Earl Grey. “Ace _does_ seem to have taken a liking to you, Timothy.”  
  
“Um…He does?”  
  
Ace is more or less ignoring us both, sniffing some patches of grass as best he can with the cone.  
  
“Oh, yes,” Alfred says. “When he sees Master Bruce, he still absolutely loses his head.”  
  
I raise an eyebrow. Sure, Bruce can be intimidating, but animals usually like him. “He doesn’t like Bruce?”  
  
“He will come around, I’m sure.” Alfred takes another sip of tea. “I believe he naturally mistrusts large men, after the Joker.”  
  
That makes sense. I read that dogs recognize more human features than I thought— they can develop fears of certain types of people based on size, voice, gender, similar articles of clothing, and some people even think they can differentiate different races, though that one’s a bit controversial. I guess I’m still small (probably will stay that way based on genetics and my terrible sleep hygiene, oops), and my voice hasn’t totally dropped yet (it’s just settled on cracking at the worst possible times). So maybe Ace doesn’t find me as threatening.  
  
“Would you like to feed him a treat?”  
  
I straighten. “Can I?” I’ve learned there’s nothing quite as satisfying as watching a dog eat a snack you gave him. Sometimes I wish Dad would let me get one, but I guess getting to hang out with Ace is lucky enough, so I don’t push it too hard with Dad.  
  
“Of course.” Alfred hands me the bag of treats, and Ace looks over at the sound of the bag. “I haven’t fed him any at all today, since I knew you’d want to. Can’t overfeed him, now, can we?”  
  
“No, sir,” I say, grinning. I open the bag, and Ace creeps over, though he still keeps his distance. I take out a piece and sit on the ground, and he slowly steps closer. I just hold the jerky out, making a point of not looking at him, and eventually he takes it delicately, then immediately turns and trots a few yards away, his tail wagging low. Now I can watch him, as long as I’m discreet about it. When he’s done, he looks at me hopefully to see if there’s more. Naturally, I have to give him another.  
  
Alfred chuckles behind me. “The way to a canine’s heart truly is through his stomach. If only that were the case with humans, eh?”  
  
“I don’t know; you’d have too many friends to keep up with, Alfred.”  
  
He smirks. “Ah, I’m afraid you’re mistaken there, young man.”  
  
“What do you mean?” I raise both eyebrows. “Your cooking’s amazing!”  
  
“Of course it is.” He winks. “I meant that you assume the way to _my_ heart is through flattery.”  
  
I laugh, and Alfred stands primly, brushes imaginary dust from his pants. The mischievous twinkle is still in his eye, like a spot of silver in galena. “Now, let’s get inside, shall we? Master Bruce should be arriving shortly.”  
  
I start to follow Alfred inside. “Ace?” I call softly. “Come ‘ere, boy!”  
  
To my delight, he follows, five feet behind me.  
  
~~~  
  
It’s two days after Christmas, and I’m going to visit Bruce. I’ve been going to his place under the guise of a winter internship with Wayne Tech, since this year’s heavy snow’s making it next to impossible to sneak over without leaving tracks. It’s our first Christmas with Dana, so I stayed in a couple nights to be courteous, but honestly it’s pretty awkward. I admit I miss Mom; Christmas was one of the few times a year she and Dad promised to be home, and they followed through almost every year. If not, we at least celebrated once she and Dad got back. It reminds me of her, and with Dad and Dana still in the honeymoon phase, I’m sort of a third wheel. I’m glad Dana makes Dad happy, though. After everything he’s been through, he deserves it.  
  
Alfred opens the door. “Ah, hello, Timothy. Master Bruce has been expecting you.”  
  
I smile. “Great.” I’m ready for some action, chase the cold out of my bones. Even though I stayed in the past few nights, I’ve been working cases as much as I can from my laptop; I’m excited to follow up on some leads.  
  
I’m surprised to find Bruce in the living room, with Ace trying to sit on his lap despite being _way_ too big. There’s a fire roaring in the fireplace, and Alfred’s gone all out on the Christmas decorations. The tree alone is huge, covered in shimmering ornaments and tinsel, and the stockings are hand-embroidered in a fancy script. The Manor smells like pine and gingerbread, weirdly nostalgic, even though my house never smelled like this at Christmas. Mrs. MacIlyver decorated our house this year out of pity, with a short artificial tree and a few anonymous polyester stockings.  
  
When Ace sees me, he bounds over, knocks me down and slobbers all over my face. His breath smells like dried chicken treats. “Hey, boy!” I push him off me, and he rolls over for belly rubs, which I oblige. “Miss me?”  
  
“He did indeed, sir,” Alfred says, smirking. “He wouldn’t stop scratching at the secret closet where we keep your uniform. Smells like you, I suppose.”  
  
“Aw, really, Ace?” I scratch his neck. “You did that, huh?” He just stares at me, and licks his nose. He’s come such a long way since his first night with us.  
  
“Greeting the dog before you greet me, as usual,” Bruce teases. He’s wearing a designer bathrobe, drinking coffee from a steaming mug.  
  
“Sorry, Bruce,” I say, grinning. “How was your Christmas?”  
  
“It was good. Crime was slow. And yours?”  
  
I shrug. “Good.”  
  
“Any presents of note, sir?” Alfred asks.  
  
Dad bought me the latest electronics as he usually does, even though I didn’t ask for them. I’ll probably give them to Ives, since he would flip out. With all my Robin stuff going on, I forgot to order something for him (I’ve just been a terrible friend in general lately), and with the Christmas rush, regifting is the quickest way to get him at least _something_ before the actual gifts arrive. Plus his chemo isn’t cheap, so his parents haven’t bought him anything big this year; he deserves some extra stuff.  
  
Dana got me an “ugly” Christmas sweater and matching socks, which is funny but unwearable unless I want to get taunted for the rest of my life. I’ll have to wear them at home instead of at school. I also exchanged some candy canes with the guys at school, but that’s nothing strange; the type of candy changes with the seasons, but the trading itself does not.  
  
“Well, nothing too crazy,” I say. Maybe I shouldn’t say that, since my gifts were really very expensive. But I’ve seen how my friends get about presents, even when they were relatively cheap— they treasure that someone thought of them enough to get them what they wanted so badly. I know it’s terrible how ungrateful I am, but somehow I just don’t feel anything particularly passionate about the gifts I received.  
  
“Well, I hope this is a little more _crazy_ , sir.” Alfred picks up a small box from under the tree. He chuckles at how wide my eyes are. “From Master Bruce and myself.”  
  
“R-really?” I can’t believe it. A lump is forming in my throat. Ace rolls over and tilts his head at me, sensing my emotion.  
  
“You’re a part of the team, now, Tim,” Bruce says, clasping my shoulder. “Go on.”  
  
I’m not sure I want to, not yet. The box is thin and long, crisply wrapped in striped wrapping paper, clearly Alfred’s doing— even every piece of tape is the same length. It probably weighs a few pounds. I have no idea what’s inside. Carefully, I tear the paper off, revealing a navy blue box. When I open it, I recognize it immediately— a collapsible bo staff, but it’s one of _my_ designs. They had it actually made.  
  
I stare at them in disbelief. Alfred chuckles again, and Bruce clears his throat. “I had Lucius whip it up in R&D. It’s still a prototype, but I thought you might like to try it out.”  
  
“You _thought_?” I laugh, wipe the tears from my eyes. I extend it, test its feel. I can tell Lucius made some improvements to my initial idea— the weight, torque, probably material, too— it’s perfect. “Thank you, Bruce, Alfred. It really means a lot to me.”  
  
“Of course, Timothy,” Alfred says, stiff-lipped as ever.  
  
That’s fine, because I always feel awkward in the spotlight. “Oh, and I have a present for you guys, too.” I slip off my backpack and take it out. My gift-wrapping job isn’t nearly as nice as Alfred’s, but it gets the job done. “You can open it now or later; I don’t mind.”  
  
“Nonsense, Timothy, we’ll open it now,” Alfred says. “Besides, sir, I can hardly stand the suspense.”  
  
Bruce chuckles and rips the paper off. There are moths fluttering in my stomach, because I have a feeling Bruce might not want me to see him open it.  
  
For the past two weeks, I’ve struggled over what to get them for Christmas, since I obviously ought to get them something, but what do you buy for a billionaire and his butler? I figured I’d have to make something, because anything purchasable they could simply purchase.  
  
And, well...I’ve noticed Bruce and Alfred have almost no photos of Batman and Robin— secret identities and all that— and meanwhile I probably have thousands. So, I went through my collection and chose a photo I liked, carefully edited it so it looks the best I can possibly make it— Batman and Robin airborne, mid-leap between rooftops, Gotham City’s nightlife providing just enough light to illuminate Bruce’s slight smirk, and Jason Todd’s confident, boisterous smile.  
  
Instantly, Bruce’s face falls. Oh, God, I’ve overstepped. Crap crap crap, I’m about to apologize when Bruce gets up without a word, hands the framed photo to Alfred, and stalks out of the room. Oh no, what was I thinking, how could I be so freaking _stupid_ —?  
  
“Timothy…” Alfred looks like he’ll cry. Ace lets out a whine.  
  
I’m about to cry, too. “I-I’m so sorry, Alfred, I-I thought—”  
  
“No, no, don’t apologize.” A second later, he’s hugging me. I can’t help a yelp of surprise. It’s the first time we’ve hugged. “Thank you, Timothy. It was very thoughtful of you. Master Bruce loves it, too.” He pulls away, wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. “He’s just embarrassed to cry in front of you.”  
  
“Are...are you sure…?” It was over a year ago that they lost Jason, and I thought they’d want a memento, but I should have considered that it might just reopen the wound. I’m mentally kicking myself. Thoughtless, stupid, I should have—  
  
“Positive.” Alfred pets Ace, who whines again and gives Alfred a comforting lick.  
  
We stay silent for a while, just petting the dog. I guess rehabilitating Ace was a real comfort to Alfred, after what happened. He lost Jason to the Joker, but he was able to save another of the Joker’s victims at least. For Bruce, all he got was me. Batman needs Robin, but that doesn’t mean the same is true of Bruce Wayne and Tim Drake. I should have stayed in my lane. Ace looks at me with knowing eyes while I scratch his back.  
  
“Still, I’ll apologize to Bruce,” I say. “I should have asked first. It’s not my place to do something like that without permission.” I was technically a stalker. Maybe what I did is, in addition to insensitive, creepy and weird. Nobody wants a framed photo of themself and their recently deceased son from their stalker. How did I not see that before?  
  
Bruce returns to the room, then.  
  
I stand. “Bruce, I—”  
  
He holds up a hand, stops me. “It’s beautiful, Tim. Thank you.” There’s still a strange lilt about his voice, so I’m not entirely convinced he’s not mad at me, but the conversation is clearly over. “Ready to go out?”  
  
I’d rather work. I know exactly where my duties start and end when it comes to Robin— there’s none of the nuance of messy personal lives getting entangled— it’s safer than trying to puzzle out what Bruce Wayne and Tim Drake are to each other. I nod, follow him and Alfred down to the Cave, Ace at my heels.  
  
~~~  
  
Crime Alley’s been busy with Red Hood out of town. At first, things were still slow enough, because the crooks still weren’t sure whether or not he was coming back. But it’s been almost two months and I still haven’t heard from Jay at all. The tracker in his helmet got damaged before he left Gotham, and I have a sickening suspicion how, but it’s just a hunch until I have proof. When he first disappeared, I checked his last known hideout for clues, but from the dust and computer log, it looked like he ditched it months before, for some unknown reason. I tried contacting him, but he’s either ignoring me or isn’t getting my messages. When I asked Bruce about it, he just got angry and told me Jason’s left Gotham for good.  
  
I grapple up to the roof of my building. The air smells like cigarette smoke, and the breeze has just a hint of autumn’s crispness— a relief after the disgustingly humid summer we’ve had. From up here, I have a bird’s eye view of crumbling buildings, bulging bags of trash, colorful garbage tumbleweeding down the street, shadows shifting around the diffused glow of moonlight on rusty metal. Crime Alley is supposedly the worst part of Gotham, and looking at it from here, I see none of the beauty that Jay always does— in a way, Jay loves Gotham more than any of us. I find it very difficult to believe he willingly left, regardless of Bruce’s wishes. Something is off, here, and Bruce is trying to keep it from me. Once I might have trusted it was for my own good, but after everything that’s happened lately, I can’t.  
  
It’s time to try a new approach, but I’ll need to put in a few hours of desk work, probably. That should take me to sunrise, I’ll sleep an hour or two, then go to work. There’s an important meeting tomorrow (or later today, I guess, since it’s past midnight) with a big Japanese car company that Lucius wants me to attend.  
  
There’s a shout from the street. Crap, another mugging. I jump down, shoot my grapple around a gargoyle, kick the guy in the shoulder on my way down. He yells and drops his gun. The victim takes his briefcase and runs. Good, now it should be—  
  
_Bang!_  
  
Shit.  
  
The bullet takes a chunk out of the brick wall behind me, and it’s followed by a few more; gunman’s across the street somewhere. I retreat into the shadow of an alleyway, throw a disc at the first thug’s handgun still on the ground, and it skitters into the storm drain. He stumbles after it, but it’ll take him a while to get it back, if he can. I can get it later for the evidence locker; for now, gotta find the other gunman.  
  
It was careless not to check beforehand. I should have evaluated the situation before just jumping in like that; normally, I would have. I’ve been stretching myself too thin lately. Or maybe I’m just feeling the lack of a partner a little more acutely these days.  
  
No, no time to think about that right now.  
  
There!  
  
Maybe a getaway guy, a lookout, or even just an unrelated criminal who saw a chance to take a shot at Red Robin. Usually I prefer not to attract attention, since Jay has enough of a reputation in this part of town, but with him missing, I’ve been a little more forward.  
  
Unfortunately, that’s basically the same as handing out axes and grindstones. This guy has a handgun, too; with my cowl’s visual enhancement, I recognize the model— ten-bullet clip, so six more before he has to reload.  
  
Without the element of surprise, fighting a gunman head-on is risky, even if he only has a handgun. No smoke pellets; I don’t want him firing blindly and hitting civilian windows; I’ll grapple up and sneak around, then. It takes longer, but it’s safer for everyone. And if I screw up and can’t nail them here, I’ll at least spook them into running— they’d be much less accurate shots while trying to run away from me, plus I have a ton of traps set up in the area that I can activate whenever, so I can herd them where I want them if necessary.  
  
I try, but it ends up a chase. Not really in the mood, but I at least manage to get them cornered in a dead-end alley, blocked off by a chain link fence. I duck behind a dumpster, count the bullets, I can hear the other guy trying to climb the fence at the end of the alley.  
  
And that should be his last shot. I throw a flash-bang capsule; he probably can’t reload blind. Vault over the dumpster, use my staff to smack the gun from his hands while he’s still screaming about his eyes, take out the guy climbing the fence first (since his back was turned, he can see better), then his buddy. I cuff them both, and interlock their cuffs for good measure. I press a button on my belt. The cops should arrive within the next ten minutes or so to pick them up; Babs’ algorithm will tell them where.  
  
One of the thugs spits on my boot. “Heh, where you goin’, _Red Robin_? Gonna go get us some burgers, now?” His buddy laughs, despite the split lip I gave him.  
  
I ignore them both, shake the spit off, go to fish his gun out of the storm drain.  
  
I don’t really know what it is about me, but I’ve never scared the bad guys as easily as Bruce, or Jay, or even Dick. Kate and Cass, they’re probably scarier than Bruce, and when Babs is mad, she’s _definitely_ scarier than Bruce. Lord knows every villain in town is at least a little afraid of Damian. But somehow when I take down a low-level street thug, he’s comfy enough to make cracks about my name right in front of me, _before_ the cops show up to protect him from any annoyed vigilante fists.  
  
Haven’t they heard by now? These days, the most dangerous thing to their bodily safety is _Batman_. Ever since Selina Kyle dumped him, he’s been acting more and more...strange, hostile. Maybe Jay’s been right about Bruce all along, and this is just bringing it out— Bruce has no heart at all, only a big, fat ego.  
  
I pull out my magnet, clip it to the end of one of my lines; it’ll stick to the slide of the gun, and if not, then the barrel, so I can pull it out from the storm drain. My knees creak when I crouch down to feed my line into the drain. God, I need some coffee.  
  
Besides, it’s not fair to criticize Bruce so harshly; I shouldn’t think so poorly of him. I’m probably just being dramatic because of what happened with the Knights. Sure, maybe he tricked me so that he could get closer to Kate, but I would have helped him even if he hadn’t resorted to manipulation, so what’s the big deal? After everything Bruce has done for me, it shouldn’t bother me so much if he needs a favor every now and then.  
  
Still, it sort of pisses me off that with Kate now working with her probably-treasonous father, Bruce decided to disband the Knights completely, firstly as if our work wasn’t helpful to begin with when it quantifiably was (I crunched the numbers to be reasonably sure), and secondly, as if it was still _his_ team to dissolve. With Kate’s...resignation, I guess, leadership should have fallen to me, not him, especially with leading the Titans for over a year on my resume. Instead, I’m back working more or less alone from my Crime Alley base, and I’ve locked Bruce out of the system. I won’t lock him out of the Belfry, since it’s apparently his despite the fact that I’m the one who built it (and since I’ve been helping Lucius run his company for almost a year, now, I made him the money I used to build it, too), but if he wants in my current base, for once he’ll have to knock. It’s satisfying in a pathetic way; it’s stupid and petty and he probably doesn’t even know he can’t get in, but that’s the only reason I leave it how it is.  
  
_Click._ Got it. I start pulling the line back up.  
  
“Well, _hell-ooo_ , there!”  
  
_Shit._ I got distracted, but I know the voice, with the air of a happy drunk in a china shop. I whirl around, staff ready. My heart’s pounding in my ears, my palms are instantly sweating; hopefully my suit’s scanners will pick up my distress and send a signal to the Cave, because I can’t send one manually without letting my guard down. Then again, Bruce is so off right now, I’m not even sure he’d come.  
  
Still, I’m determined not to let my voice shake. “What do you want, Joker?”  
  
“Ah-HA! When I heard about this _Red Robin_ character, I thought it might be you! And— HUZZAH!” He does a little skip, grabs the lapels of his suit jacket and straightens them primly. His smile stretches his cracked lips until they bleed, bright red against the chalky white of his skin, the nicotine yellow of his teeth. “I know that voice, Boy Blunder Number Three! I’ve missed you!” His grin is so sickening, I’m almost glad when he frowns. “Ever since that _brat_ with the sword replaced you, lemme be _honest,_ things have been much less _fun._ ”  
  
He takes a step closer, and I take a step back, keeping my staff between us. I didn’t even know he was out of Arkham; how did I miss something so important? I’ve been _way_ too distracted lately; letting _the Joker_ sneak up on me is one major accomplishment.  
  
“You know, Harley always _did_ say you were her favorite of Batsy’s sidekicks.” Joker heaves a theatrical sigh, a mockery of wistfulness. Somehow, his presence fills the street, like he and I are the only ones in the world. “You remember Harley, don’t you?”  
  
Is that what this is about? As far as I know, she’s with Amanda Waller’s secret task force, now. “You can’t get to her, Joker. She couldn’t come back to you now even if she wanted to.”  
  
I still have no idea what he wants, so it’s best to keep him talking until he reveals it. Wait, no, the cops are on their way, and if they’re only coming to pick up some gift-wrapped common thugs, they’ll be even worse-equipped to handle the Joker than I am. Have to wrap this up or move it before they come...five minutes at most...  
  
“Oh, goodness me! Whatever will I do without my Harley?” He throws a hand against his forehead, swooning, mocks dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. When he looks at me, his eyes glisten with suppressed glee. “Don’t you feel _sorry_ for poor, lonely Joker, all alone in his big, cold warehouse?”  
  
Maybe I can get him to chase me a bit, activate one of my traps...He’s faster than he looks, though, and I still don’t know if he’s here alone. “If you treated people better, maybe they’d stay.” Gotta keep stalling, come on, think of something...  
  
His eyes light up. “Ah, is that how Batsy does it?” My breath catches at the irony, but instantly I feel guilty, push that thought away. The Joker just continues. “Great idea, Robby-boy! Actually, I’ve been thinking of it myself! What would _really_ make my ware _house_ into a ware _home, hm_?” He points a finger to the sky, an exaggerated gesture. “And then it hit me! It was right in front of me all along! Ah, I can just _see_ it, now…!” He gets misty-eyed, spreads his arms. His smile is impossibly wide. “Just me, the hyenas, and a _son_ of my very own! Wouldn’t that be _fantaSTIC_?”  
  
Um, _no_ , thank you very much. “What do you want, Joker?” I repeat, carefully.  
  
“Didn’t you hear me?!” He’s angry all of a sudden. By the time I realize he’s not talking to me, it’s too late. There’s a prick in my neck, _through_ the body armor somehow— it must be very thin. My legs instantly fold beneath my weight, someone catches me in a graceful dip. The Joker floats over me, I smile back at him. He pinches my cheek affectionately, pulls a bag over my head, like covering a baby with a blanket.  
  
There’s nothing funnier than the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to school, I'm not sure when the next update will be, but I will attempt to update on Saturdays. :') Thanks for reading!!! <3  
> Pueden comentar en español también. 나는 한국말도 이해해!


	2. Barbara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to add last time-- though I'm loosely following the Rebirth timeline, most of the characterization (especially Tim's) is much more heavily based on pre-new52 content. (I'm sorry, I just really dislike Tim's post-new52 characterization aaah don't come for me pls ^^') The exceptions though are Barbara (based more heavily on Batgirl 2016), Jason (Red Hood and the Outlaws 2016), Bruce sometimes (Batman 2016 (ew)), and Duke (Batman and the Signal 2017). 
> 
> Also, since this chapter is a bit on the shorter side, I'm posting two chapters today! :) 
> 
> Please enjoy~

I should have checked the door.  
  
I always did, after all. It was a habit of mine, growing up as the daughter of a GCPD detective, Lieutenant, and finally, Commissioner. In Gotham, it pays to be a little more paranoid than back in Chicago.  
  
But I remember, I was eager to spend just one night hanging out with Dad. He’d worked nights for years, but finally, tonight, he was staying home to watch a movie with me, like old times. Mom was long gone, and so was James— with our family down to two, quality time was so important to me. I’d packed up the suit for the night, stuffed in its usual spot, in a box under the floorboards of my closet. Dad had made hot cocoa, and I’d dropped in the mini marshmallows, pleased even by the simple way they plopped below the froth and bobbed back to the surface. The night was going to be perfect, I could feel it. I remember, I decided not to be paranoid for once. I remember, I decided, just this once, I’d open the door without checking who was behind it. I was in a rush.  
  
Then that stupid floral print shirt, that camera with the piercing gaze slung around his neck, my cocoa splattered on the floor of the apartment, soaking through the carpet, the marshmallows soggy and deflated. Certain details are sharply, harshly focused, even now, years later.  
  
But that _smile_. I know what it looks like without remembering that night. It’s not unfeeling, it’s not false. A smile that wide can only be genuine joy. And it is. I can’t forget it, I can’t forget _anything_ , but that is a detail I’ve never allowed myself to dwell on. I can’t promise I won’t break down if I think about it too long. I can’t promise I won’t collapse.  
  
_Tim,_ please, _can you hear me?_  
  
“Babs…”  
  
I jump when Dick puts a hand on my shoulder.  
  
“Dick…” He’s also wearing his suit, but the mask is off. There are dark circles under his eyes, his forehead creased, the space between his eyebrows furrowed with stress. His eyes are exhausted, blue like the sea after a storm.  
  
I stand from the plastic chair I’ve been sitting on for— I glance at the clock on the infirmary wall— four hours. I don’t even notice the woman standing next to Dick until she steps forward from the shadows, unimposing and almost meek. She’s one of Dick’s former teammates, Raven— a powerful empath, and a healer. Dick called her up to see if she can do anything for Tim. I’ve never talked to her much before, and I admit the outfit looks almost spooky, but I can sense the warmth radiating from her skin, an aura of kindness Dick says she doesn’t realize is there.  
  
I hope Tim can feel it, somehow. I can hardly bear to look at him right now, even though I haven’t left his bedside, either. I try to rub the numbness out of my thighs.  
  
“Batgirl.” Raven nods to me, almost shyly. Her eyes are sad.  
  
“Call me Babs.”  
  
“Babs, then.” Her voice is soft, gentle. She pauses a moment to look at Ace, Alfred’s old, arthritic dog who’s come all the way down to the Cave to curl up by the footboard of Tim’s infirmary bed. Other than Alfred, Tim has always been Ace’s favorite. He’s been down here since the night we found Tim, refusing to leave his side.  
  
“And this is Ace.” I gesture to the sleeping dog.  
  
“Ace…” Raven murmurs. “A loyal boy.” She turns to Tim, now, who’s been in a coma for two days already. His entire body is swathed in bandages, tubes snaking from his mouth, nose, arms, connecting to different machines, IV bags. Tears spring to my already swollen eyes as I let myself hear the beeping of the machines, the rhythmic wheeze-and-hiss of the respirator.  
  
I swallow against the lump in my throat and give Raven Dr. Thompkins’ diagnoses— malnutrition, unknown poisoning (most of which has worked its way out of his system by now with help from Dr. Thompkins), possible liver and kidney damage, chemical and electrical burns, some lingering septic shock from the subsequent infection, nerve damage in his wrists and ankles, probably brain damage. Plus, he’s immunocompromised from losing his spleen last year.  
  
My voice cracks, like a bullet through glass. “We’re...we’re not even sure if he’ll wake up.” Much less wake up the same person he was before.  
  
Raven gently places a hand on his forehead, over the bandages. “I can heal the sepsis and infection for sure, then I’ll focus on the internal damage. I’ll try my best with the rest.”  
  
I nod. Dick puts a hand on my arm, and I take it and hold it. He speaks quietly, the exhaustion creeping into his voice despite his best efforts to hide it from me. “How are you holding up?”  
  
I know he’s asking because Bruce and I are the ones who found Tim. I refuse to say we _saved_ him. I blink, and I see it again— I’m gripping Tim by bony, trembling shoulders, I can feel his fever burning through the fabric of the garish purple blazer, the skin of his face bleached in grotesque blotches, his eyes impossibly wide and bloodshot and dilated, and _that smile carved into his face—  
  
Tim,_ please, _can you hear me?_  
  
“Don’t worry about me,” I mutter back, swallowing against the bile rising in my throat, the phantom pain in my gut. Changing the subject will help. “I basically forced Alfred to go to bed earlier, but I’m worried about Bruce. He’s still out working.”  
  
Dick gives my hand a squeeze. “Bruce is probably more afraid than any of us.”  
  
I nod. Dick and I know better than almost anyone about Bruce’s coping mechanisms. When faced with tragedy, especially a personal one, working himself to the bone is the only solace he’ll allow himself.  
  
“He’ll wake up.” Raven lifts her hands from Tim’s chest, which seems to be rising and falling more easily, now. “I can’t say when, but I’m sure he will, at least.” She kneels down and pets Ace, who just sighs contentedly in response. “I’m sorry I can’t do more...”  
  
Dick almost smiles with relief. “No, this is more than we’d hoped for. Thank you, Raven.” He pulls her into a hug, which she hesitantly returns after a moment. After they’re finished, I squeeze her arm in thanks, and she offers me a small smile before melting into the shadows, disappearing.  
  
I plop back down in the plastic chair, forcing myself to look at Tim. I know it should be a huge relief to know he’ll regain consciousness, and it is, but still…  
  
I spent less than an hour at the Joker’s mercy and it still haunts me years later. Even if Tim’s personality and cognitive abilities are still intact when he wakes, I don’t even want to imagine the psychological trauma of three weeks clenched in the palm of Joker’s hand. I hate myself for thinking it, but perhaps it’d be a mercy for all of us if he just quietly slipped away.  
  
_No._ Tim is strong, as strong as me if not stronger. If anyone can find a way to live with _this_ , if anyone can devise a strategy for long-term survival, it’s Tim. He loves data for its own sake almost as much as I do, and he loves manipulating it even more. He’s always been the planner. For everyone’s sakes, I can’t give up on him. I know what it’s like to feel broken, and that’s how he’ll feel after this. He needs to see that the feeling won’t be forever.  
  
“Babs.” Dick pulls up a chair next to mine and sits in it, pulling one knee up to his chest. “You haven’t slept properly in days. Go get some rest.”  
  
I can’t. I know what I’ll see if I do. “You haven’t slept, either, Dick.”  
  
Dick manages a small smile at that. “I guess not.” His face goes somber again when he looks at Tim. “I just...God, I should have been there…”  
  
“Dick,” I say sternly. “You can’t let yourself go there.” I’ve been struggling not to go there, myself.  
  
“ _Three weeks,_ Babs… _Three fucking weeks_...” His voice breaks. “When it comes to the Joker...I haven’t been there...for _any_ of you…”  
  
I know he’s carried the guilt of not being there when the Joker shot me and kidnapped Dad, when the Joker beat and killed Jason. Sometimes I think the thing Dick learned best from Bruce was the guilty conscience. I cup his cheek, force him to look at me. “Hey. You know neither of us blame you for anything. Bruce doesn’t, either.”  
  
“I should’ve been the one to rescue Tim instead of you...I shouldn’t have let you face him again, not like _that_ —”  
  
“Dick. I’m strong. You know that.” I wish I didn’t have to see the Joker again, either. But if anyone, it _had_ to be me that found Tim. “I’m thankful that you want to, but I don’t need you to protect me.”  
  
“I know, but…”  
  
“Hey, look at me.” There are tears in his eyes. “You’re here _now_ , Richard Grayson. And you’ll be here when Tim wakes up. If you just can’t let go of that guilt, which isn’t yours in the first place, think of _this_ as your chance to be here.”  
  
Dick sighs shakily. “Y-you’re right, Babs…” He hugs me, and I hug him back. We all need more than a hug right now, but for now it’s the best either of us can do. He squeezes me tighter. “Thanks.”  
  
When we finally pull apart, my eyes fall on Ace, still sleeping on the floor by Tim’s bed. “We should try to convince Ace to come upstairs. Alfred said he’s been refusing to leave.”  
  
“Poor guy’s getting old,” Dick says. He crouches next to the dog, pets his ears. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s all the stairs he’s trying to avoid.” Ace opens one eye and sighs. “I’ll bring his food and stuff down here, maybe his bed.” Dick straightens and gives me another hug. “You go get some rest, Babs. I’m sure Bruce and Alfie wouldn’t mind if you stay here, if that’s easier. I’ll sit with Tim for a while, after I get Ace’s stuff.”  
  
I sigh. “Okay.”  
  
Dick goes upstairs, and I kneel next to Ace. He looks at me with sad brown eyes, like he understands. Tim always said that Ace was intensely empathetic, but I never knew what he meant until now. I suppose Ace would know what Tim’s been through, maybe even better than me.  
  
I give the old mutt a kiss on the head. “Take care of him, okay, boy?”


	3. Jason

_“You’re never coming back to Gotham. Not even Arkham.”  
  
As if I’m actually insane enough to go there. We’ve tried that route before, me and Dick, and I passed every single one of my psych evals. I’m not crazy, not by a long shot. The only thing that makes me question it is how easily Bruce fooled me all these years.  
  
I don’t know why I expected him to apologize, to take anything he said back. Stupid. “Oh.” I hate how disappointed my voice sounds. “Okay.”  
  
I want to know why he’s here. He takes a long sip of coffee before answering. His voice is even and measured, carefully controlled. “Tim is dead.”  
  
_“What?” _For a moment, I’m speechless. Then the anger is a flash flood, a tornado touching down, a volcanic eruption. “How could you let this happen?!”  
  
“Jason, I—”  
  
“He loved you more than _anyone, _Bruce! How could you let him just—?” My voice breaks. Batman let Robin die yet again. I hold my head in my hands, the world shrinking down to me, Bruce, and the cheap vinyl-covered countertop. There’s a coffee stain on the counter between my elbows that I can’t stop looking at.  
  
Tim Drake was always too innocent, too naive— he was one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, yet he forgave almost anything. He trusted me after I’d betrayed him, multiple times. He trusted me even after a first impression where I beat him unconscious, another meeting where I stabbed a Batarang into his chest and left him for dead, another time when he released me from jail on an oath of good behavior and instead I went on a killing spree. And yet— he’s always been the one who accepted me. He idolized me, I crushed him, and he just got up and kept reaching out to me. Before I even made the deal with Bruce not to kill, what feels like forever ago, he helped me set up my computer so I could have my own base in Gotham. A killer like me deserved to die, but Tim Drake? Not him.  
  
Not my little brother.  
  
Maybe...maybe I’ve been hoping him and me could, I don’t know, reconcile, even if things never worked out between me and Bruce. But now it’s impossible. I feel like someone’s opened up a hole in my stomach, and my organs are leaking out onto the floor of the diner, filling the cracks between the tile where the caulk is missing. A filthy puddle of my blood and guts going stagnant on the floor.  
  
I’m not sure how long we’ve been silent. My voice shakes. “How?”  
  
“We don’t know. He disappeared ten days ago. I...I found his remains.” Bruce’s voice is hoarse, like he’s holding back tears himself. “I’m sorry, Jason.”  
  
“Tell me you’re working on a way to bring him back!” I’m yelling, now. It occurs to me that someone might hear us, but I don’t give a damn.  
  
Bruce is quiet.  
  
I wish I could smash his skull in. “You stopped at _nothing _to get Damian back! Worse, he—” My voice cracks, shatters. “_ Tim _stopped at nothing to get_ you _back, Bruce. We all thought you were dead and he was the_ only one _who still believed in you._ Tell me _you’re doing the same for him.”  
  
“It’s...it’s too much, Jason...”  
  
“Bullshit.” When we fought last, he had me bedridden for three weeks. But I’m willing to fight him again. “_Bullshit _, Bruce! Fucking get him back! Get_ your son _back!”  
  
“That’s what I want to do.” He looks at me, almost pleadingly. I _hate _that look.  
  
“Oh, hell, no…” I shake my head, stand from the counter. “You’re not...You made it clear enough two months ago that I’m _not _your son. I’ve_ never _been your son. But_ Tim _? You owe Tim your fucking life. Return the favor. He’s_ not _dead, or he’s not_ going _to be._ Find him. _”  
  
Bruce hesitates. “You’re right, Jay. I can’t give up hope. Not yet.” He stands, too, now, starts going outside. I follow. He turns before unlocking his car. “Jason...I want you to know, I’ve never rejected you as my son. Not once. Not even for a moment.”  
  
Sure didn’t feel like it when he was beating the shit out of me, even if it _was _for my own good. Even so, I can’t help myself, I spread my arms, and we’re hugging. I want to cry into his shoulder and vomit at the same time.  
  
Tim Drake, my little brother, is dead.  
  
This _can’t _be right._  
  
I shake myself from the memory. He’s alive after all, so it doesn’t matter.  
  
It doesn’t matter.  
  
Still, I don’t have any right to be here, and I know it. Hell, I waited around in the trees for Batman— Bruce— to leave the Manor before I even dared go within a hundred feet of the place. He told me I’ll never be welcome back in Gotham, but I can’t just stay away. I’m not even sure if Bruce knows I know, and I figure there’s no reason to find out. It was Babs who called and told me they found Tim, after three weeks of being missing. He was never dead, but he’s still pretty damn close. Killing me is water under the bridge compared to this; the Joker’s days are numbered. As soon as I’m done here, I’m hunting that fucking _animal_ down and shooting him so full of bullets there won’t be enough left for a fucking autopsy. Maybe I’ll even bring a crowbar, too, just for _fun_. Nothing I can do to him will ever make up for _this_. I hate it so much I think I’ll combust.  
  
_Just keep it together, Jason…_ I take a few deep breaths. I’m here to see Tim. I can be angry later.  
  
I consider ringing the doorbell, letting Alfred at least know that I’m here, but somehow, after everything, the idea of seeing Alfred is worse than Bruce. Instead, I sneak straight down into the Cave, using the access code Babs gave me.  
  
Despite years away, I recognize the airy draft, the leather-mixed-with-lemon-polish smell— Alfred’s desperate attempt to mask the stench of the literal winged rats living in the darkness above. Still, Bruce never seemed to mind living with the filth. Why would he, when it’s all just a show for him? He might act like he knows what the streets are like, act like he understands, but the fact is he’s always had the cozy Manor to go back to after a long night’s work.  
  
And like the Manor, the Cave’s always been bigger than any actually _humble_ man would need. The trophy room alone is stupidly big. I remember being fucking _dazzled_ by it, back in the day. I still don’t know why I was ever so surprised to find out how far Batman’s head is shoved up his own ass. Still, I give the ol’ t-rex a pat on the leg as I pass. “Long time, no see, Dominique.”  
  
I know the infirmary is off to my left, but I hesitate at the Bat Computer. The monitor is so ridiculously big, I have to crane my neck to even look at the whole thing. Babs said Tim’s medical record would be on there, and I could look at it if I wanted. I’m not sure I want to know the details of what the Joker did to the kid, but I owe it to him to find out, so I sit in the chair and open the file. It’s waiting for me as promised, no password required.  
  
_Fuck.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Fuck._  
  
I can’t look away. My eyes skim over the words like they’re electrified, too burning hot to look at, yet searing themselves into my mind anyway. I wanna throw up. How the fuck is anyone supposed to make up for _this_?  
  
“Jason?”  
  
I jump from the chair, whirl around. “Oh, Duke. Uh, Babs let me in.”  
  
“Yeah, she told me you were coming.” Duke takes a step closer. He’s holding a tray of bandages and other supplies, probably restocking the infirmary from the reserves Alfred keeps upstairs. I don’t know Duke too well, but he seems cool. He’s from the Narrows, just a couple blocks from where I grew up on Butcher’s Block. I’d guessed at first that he was another one of Bruce’s charity cases, but it wasn’t long before I realized maybe not, considering Duke is a hell of a lot smarter than I’ll ever be. Plus, he’s some kind of meta. Rich man’s guilt isn’t the only reason to take a kid like Duke under his wing, and Bruce is nothing if not strategic. Duke clears his throat. “Do you, um...do you wanna see him?”  
  
I swallow, my throat painfully dry. “Yeah.”  
  
I follow Duke towards the infirmary. Tim hasn’t woken up, yet, as far as I know. I know I won’t have to talk to him, but my stomach is still in knots. After everything that’s happened lately between me and Bruce, I’m not quite sure where me and Tim stand at the moment, either. We’ve had a rocky past, for sure, with me being a crime boss and trying to kill him a few times and all. But somehow, he’s forgiven me for _all_ of that, trusted me when none of the rest of them would. He’s been good for Bruce, a better Robin than I ever was or could’ve been. I’m not sure if he’d be okay with me showing up now, after my more recent betrayals.  
  
Duke stops short of the curtain, and I do, too. “It’s, um…” He chews his lip. “It’s really bad, Jason, so…”  
  
_Brace yourself._  
  
“Yeah, I got it.”  
  
At least, I _thought_ I’d got it. Compared to what the Joker did to me, the physical damage was supposed to be minimal— he didn’t beat Tim bloody or blow him up. But no matter how I slice it, this is worse. Apparently Raven’s already done what she can, but it’s not enough. He’s way too pale— where he’s not swathed in bandages, his skin’s been messily bleached in sickly off-white blotches. Most of him is covered by a blanket, but one arm is sticking out for the IV needles, and a band of flesh around his wrist is cracked and purple and swollen. His head’s been shaved, but his scalp has a greenish hue, like the Joker gave him a crappy dye job. And his face. The Joker’s carved Tim a permanent grin.  
  
I curse. I’m on fire, I can’t see straight, vicious red closing in on my vision. When I get my hands on the Joker...God help him, I’ll _torture_ that son of a bitch, Batman and his self-righteous rules be damned. If I’d went and done it sooner, this never would have happened. If I hadn’t been deluding myself about Bruce for so long...I could’ve done it sooner, damn us both.  
  
Duke opens the cabinets surrounding the bed, starts stashing the stuff he brought down in them. “Raven promised he’d wake up…”  
  
“Yeah, and _then_ what?” I growl. What comes after is always worse than the brutality itself. Death would be a mercy. I would know.  
  
Duke rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “We do our best to help.”  
  
I huff out a breath. “Right. And the Joker?” Bruce had better have _some_ kind of plan, at least, even if it’s a plan I’ll have to ignore or even sabotage so I can execute mine.  
  
“Dead.” Duke shrugs. My breath catches in my throat. Did Bruce finally—? “Bruce and Barbara don’t wanna talk about details, but...apparently he got shot. Caught in some crossfire or something.”  
  
“Fuck.” My fists are clenched so hard they shake, blood roaring in my ears, loud as a building crumbling around me, crushing me. I wish he’d have died slower. If anyone deserved it, he did. A bullet is too much mercy. I almost wish he’d survived, so I could—  
  
“I know,” Duke says. His voice is strained with rage, familiar. “It was an easier death than he deserved.”  
  
That’s a pretty dark thing to say for the Signal, isn’t it? I raise an eyebrow. “And here I thought you were a goody-two-shoes.”  
  
Duke looks at the ground. “He, um, he poisoned my parents.”  
  
“ _Shit,_ man…”  
  
“You don’t have to say you’re sorry or anything. I just wish…” he sighs. “I don’t even know what I wish...I’m just glad he’s gone.”  
  
“Yeah.” I cross my arms, lean against the counter. I don’t know how to feel, I’m just numb. I look at Tim again. _C’mon, Tim. You can’t let him win._ “Yeah, me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! <3  
> As always, feel free to let me know your thoughts! :) Anyone else as much of a sucker for Tim and Jason being good brothers as I am?? T.T Ah, who am I kidding, any batbros being bros stuff is my favorite :"D  
> (Entiendo español también and 한국말도 이해해!)


	4. Damian

Truthfully, I don’t care about Drake. Not even a little.  
  
I only wish Father would allow me to don the cape again. Ever since Drake’s pathetic failure, Father has become paranoid and won’t allow me to continue my duties as Robin. It isn’t fair to punish me for Drake’s mistakes.  
  
Talia would tell me that grumbling is unbecoming. But Talia is not here, and Richard has no such prohibitions. Thus, I cross my arms and sink further into this beanbag chair. I only uncross one arm for the purpose of giving Ace a scratch when he settles next to my beanbag.  
  
We are sitting in Drake’s old bedroom, where they moved Drake once he was stable enough. He still hasn’t woken up, but his condition has been improving with aggressive treatment. Richard has positioned our beanbags at the foot of Drake’s bed, and his laptop on the desk chair so that we may watch an intensely dry documentary on microorganisms. While I _am_ rather fond of animals, I hardly care for the ones I cannot see.  
  
I roll my eyes, but Richard is not paying attention, so I roll my entire head, too. “Drake really enjoyed this boring drivel? Why am I not surprised?”  
  
“Damian.” Richard frowns. He gestures at the computer, where a computer-animated rendition of a tardigrade undulates. It looks positively disgusting.  
  
_It looks just like Drake, actually._ Somehow, the joke doesn’t seem as funny right now.  
  
“Tim loves science,” Richard reasons. “Documentaries help him destress.”  
  
I roll my eyes again. “He cannot hear us, Richard.”  
  
“We don’t know that, Damian.” He frowns even deeper, casting a glance at Drake. I wish Drake would stop being so inconsiderate and just _awaken._ No one would have to waste their energy worrying about him if he would simply regain his health, and I would be allowed to resume my duties as Robin. Without Robin, my life has become incredibly dull, and I’ve found that for some reason it is also more stressful.  
  
Richard drapes an arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer, and I don’t protest. I suppose a part of me is pleased when Richard shows affection, though I would never admit such a thing aloud.  
  
A giggle behind us. I startle, an involuntary noise escapes my throat, but Richard does not seem to hear me. He turns quickly to look at Drake, whose eyes are open a crack, lips are parted in a slight smile.  
  
“Tim!” A second later, Richard is at his side, holding his hand. “Tim, can you hear me? It’s Dick!”  
  
His eyes move towards Richard, but they’re glazed, and he makes a breathless chuckle.  
  
My heart rate quickens. I can feel my pulse against a lump in my throat. I feel strange, all my instincts scream to run away.  
  
“It’s okay if you can’t talk,” Richard says, his voice watery. He runs his hand over the stubble on Drake’s head, stroking gently. “Just relax, okay? You’re safe, now, I promise.” Drake blinks slowly. “You can sleep.”  
  
I cannot stand it anymore, and withdraw from the room. I do not know why some creature is clawing at my guts, scratching at the inside of my chest, struggling to escape. I do not know what it is or why I feel it, and I do not know why I cannot banish it with a scoff as I normally do. I dislike it, a lot.  
  
I suppose it is true I have not been sleeping well lately. I admit that I have a sense of mild concern that Father is crusading alone so many nights, and though the Joker is dead, I still see him in my dreams, torturing Father and Richard as he did Drake. Perhaps this sensation is merely the result of the added stress.  
  
_Do not be foolish, do not be foolish.  
  
The Joker is dead.  
  
There is no reason to be afraid. _  
  
I withdraw to my room, curl up in the space between the bed and the wall where Pennyworth the Cat likes to relax. Titus joins me there a moment later, resting his head in my lap. I stroke him. Titus is never afraid. I will strive to be like him.  
  
“Dami?” It is Richard. I am not sure if I want to respond, but he finds me before I make up my mind. He lays on my bed perpendicularly so he can peer into the crack between the bed and the wall where I’m hiding. No, I’m not hiding. I’m _relaxing._ “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing.” I pet Titus, refusing to look at Richard.  
  
“I know it was a little...creepy,” Richard says. “But this is good news. Tim woke up!”  
  
“Yes, I suppose that is good for him.” I roll my eyes. “And it was not _creepy_ , Richard. It was just...surprising. I assumed Pennyworth would want to perform an examination, so I left so as to be out of the way.”  
  
“Oh.” Richard does a backwards somersault off the bed— unnecessary, but I suppose it’s less showy than his usual antics, so I will tolerate it. “Alright. Alfie also says you’ve been kinda restless lately.”  
  
Will he offer to chaperone me? Surely Father will allow me to go out if Richard goes with me. “A bit, yes. I have nothing compelling to do, I’m afraid.”  
  
“You know, Dami, having a life outside of Robin is just as important as fighting crime.”  
  
I sigh inwardly. So he is not going to offer to chaperone me. Instead, he will try to convince me that I need _friends_ and a _normal_ life. He’s often tried this argument with me, and once even forced me to spend a few days with the Teen Titans when I first became Robin, though I always fail to see how having a “private life” is so important. I suppose it does help build up the “secret identity” and thereby provides an alibi for many situations, but an eleven-year-old hardly needs an alibi for anything. It would be simple enough to say I had a stomachache and went home, or slept over at a friend’s house.  
  
“Please, Richard, I do not want to have this conversation _again._ ” Besides, I ‘hang out’ with the Titans enough already, and I even patrol with Jon sometimes. That is more than enough socializing.  
  
“Alright, alright.” Instead, he simply lays on my bed, correctly this time. “Come up here.”  
  
“Why? Oh—” He grabs me by the armpits and hauls me up with him. I roll my eyes. While there are many advantages to being smaller than him, this is not one of them. “You are ridiculous.”  
  
He grins. “Thanks.”  
  
Titus jumps up to join us, and we both scratch him for a while. I do not want to think about what it means that Drake has awoken. He did not look particularly alert to me, so I see no reason to get our hopes up that he may awake permanently or return to anything like his original condition. Wait, _no_ , not _our_ hopes, I meant _their_ hopes.  
  
I sigh. I suppose I _do_ have some hopes riding on Drake, which is unfortunate. For example, Father has been stressed lately, and I hope this will at least give him some respite.  
  
“Hey, Damian…”  
  
“Yes, what is it, Richard?”  
  
“Pullin’ you in.”  
  
I would protest, but I know it is futile. At least he warned me this time, I suppose. He slips one arm under my neck and pulls me to his warmth. I smell his detergent. Titus is jealous and lays on my legs. Richard mumbles something about taking a nap, which is odd for a grown man, but I suppose everyone in the family is usually a bit sleep-deprived, and Nightwing has been working very hard in Gotham ever since Selina left.  
  
_Selina._ I’d rather not think of her, or what she did to us.  
  
For now, since I am trapped underneath my large dog and Richard’s large arm, I suppose I will surrender. I admit the fitful nights have taken their toll on me, as well.  
  
A nap it is.  
  
~~~  
  
I sit in the hallway with my sketchbook, listening. Pennyworth does crossword puzzles with Drake every day, as though it will help him recover. He has been back with us two weeks, and it has now been eight days since he first awoke, but he still says nothing unprompted by Pennyworth. He speaks only during their daily crossword hour. We do not know if he will improve, but Pennyworth is optimistic.  
  
“Let’s see, now…” His voice is serene, as though it is an old friend he speaks to and not a catatonic fool. “Fourteen across, ‘Left behind after death,’ six letters, ends in a ‘y.’”  
  
Drake answers immediately. I can hear the haggard smile in his voice. “Legacy.”  
  
“Ah, of course. Very good, sir.” I hear the scratch of Pennyworth’s pen on the morning newspaper. Only Pennyworth would still read the paper newspaper instead of transitioning to modern technology. He is old-fashioned that way.  
  
I check my watch. Drake never lasts very long during these so-called puzzle sessions, tiring easily, like a baby. Surely they will be done soon, and Pennyworth will leave to complete his other duties. He will ask Thomas to watch Drake in his stead until he has finished his chores, which will be earlier than usual since I have been forced to help to replace my duties as Robin.  
  
“Six down,” Pennyworth continues. “‘The all-seeing government in George Orwell’s _1984,_ ten letters, the fifth of which is ‘r.’”  
  
“Big brother.”  
  
“Ah, indeed, sir.” The scratch of the pen.  
  
“Dick.”  
  
I nearly drop my pencil. Did Drake just speak unprompted? Why is my heart beating so fast? I don’t care, I don’t care.  
  
Pennyworth sounds as though he wishes to remain calm, but cannot quite accomplish it. “Pardon?”  
  
Drake does not answer, and a minute later, Pennyworth emerges from the room. Somehow, I forgot to sneak away before he realized I was listening. Luckily, Pennyworth the Cat is lying on my feet, and I have been drawing him, which is a perfect excuse for why I am where I am and have not moved.  
  
“Pennyworth,” I say to Pennyworth the Human.  
  
“Master Damian.” He goes downstairs to fetch Thomas, who was doing his homework in the living room the last time I saw him.  
  
Nudging Pennyworth the Cat gently off my feet, I go to inspect Drake, the cat following on my heels. I first pay tribute to sleeping Ace with some caresses, as Ace has been faithfully guarding Drake’s bed from...squirrels and birds, I suppose. Whatever it is he imagines might want to harm his masters.  
  
Once I have made a satisfactory offering, I turn to Ace’s charge. Drake’s eyes are glassy and half-closed, so I do not believe he is aware of my presence. He is still on intravenous fluids and antibiotics (the bungling idiot somehow managed to lose his spleen traipsing about in Europe last year). I cannot see the burns on his skin because they are covered in bandages, but where he has not been burned his skin is a hideous patchwork of pale and yellowed off-white. I lift a corner of the blanket to see that most of the swelling in his ankles has gone down, and the bruising has faded to a sickly greenish hue, speckled with purple and yellow. I suppose this is a good sign. He giggles weakly at me, and I make a face at him.  
  
“You are nothing more than a buffoon, Drake.”  
  
“Hey, Damian,” Thomas says from behind me. “Checking in on Tim?”  
  
“Tt. Of course not. Do not be absurd, Thomas.” I pick up Pennyworth the Cat as though he’d been in the room first. “I was merely looking for Pennyworth.”  
  
“Alfred? He’s—”  
  
“I meant the cat.”  
  
“Oh. Right.” Thomas shrugs and sits at Drake’s desk, resumes his homework. He is definitely one of my favorite siblings, which I suppose is not very impressive considering his competition, but he at least minds his own business.  
  
I leave the room with my cat, and settle in my room until dinner. Father has been working late at the company, taking over Drake’s CEO duties as well as Red Robin’s patrol routes. Even if they are paltry contributions that Drake makes on only a spotty basis, added to Father’s already intense workload, his work has become a heavy burden.  
  
When Father finally arrives home from work, he skips dinner where Pennyworth and I are eating (Thomas is still upstairs with Drake and is eating later) and promptly begins his work as the Batman. Pennyworth and I exchange a look, and I follow Pennyworth downstairs to the Batcave.  
  
Father has already engaged the Batcomputer by the time we arrive, typing away on his monstrous keyboard.  
  
“Master Bruce. What is it you are doing?” Pennyworth holds his hands primly in front of him. I stand behind him, subtly shifting my weight from side to side. Normally, I would practice my stealth or my balance given an opportunity such as this one, but now it feels...odd for some reason. Perhaps because it has been so long since Father has allowed me to don my uniform and support him in his war on crime, even though that is all I want to do.  
  
“What does it look like, Alfred?”  
  
“Well, sir,” Pennyworth says dryly. “It _sounds_ like you’ve all but forgotten the manners I‘ve so painstakingly taught you over the years. Are you in need of a review?”  
  
“Very funny,” Father says, without smiling.  
  
“Sir, please.” Pennyworth stands beside him, and I follow, standing close behind Pennyworth. “Don’t you think you ought to spend a bit of time with Master Timothy? Master Duke is with him now, but…” Father stands and turns away, puts the cowl on. “The boy needs his father.”  
  
I scoff. Of course Pennyworth still insinuates that Drake is my father’s son, despite living in the Manor for only one year. Though Drake may have had the benefit of knowing Father longer than I have, I am and will always be the blood son, the true heir to the mantle of the Bat _and_ his company. Drake’s position as CEO was always only a temporary one.  
  
Father sighs. He turns and looks at Pennyworth for a moment, before removing the cowl and the cape, hanging it on the chair, pulling on a sweatshirt to venture upstairs.  
  
“Master Damian, please let Master Duke know we are coming.”  
  
For once, I do not protest. Still, I only pretend to go upstairs, employing my League training so that I may disappear into the shadows and listen to what Father and Pennyworth are saying.  
  
“Alfred…” Father clenches his fists at his sides. His face is...unfamiliar. The shadows cast the creases in his face deeper, the bags under his eyes darker. He looks...old. Sad. “How could I have let this happen?”  
  
_It is not your fault, Father!_ I wish I could say, but the words get stuck in my throat. I am supposed to be upstairs, anyway. Besides, it is Drake’s own fault for thinking he could operate without Father’s closer supervision, for getting himself kidnapped by someone as obviously dangerous as the Joker at all, for not having an escape plan in place in the event that he were to be captured, for not having a plan to contact Father and alert him to his situation. Father is not to blame for what has happened to Drake.  
  
Pennyworth seems to agree, putting both hands on Father’s shoulders. It is strange, seeing Father playing the role of son. I wonder if the way that Father looks at Pennyworth is the same as the way that I look at Father. As though searching for an answer.  
  
“Master Bruce. This is not your fault. You cannot blame yourself for the actions of a madman. You understand this logic applied to all of your proteges, but you cannot apply the same logic to yourself.  
  
“Master Timothy is not lost to us, not as Master Jason once was. He is alive, and if… _when_ , he is able, I know he will tell you the same— you are not to blame.”  
  
Pennyworth then tells Father about earlier, during their crossword hour, when Drake spoke Richard’s name, unprompted. There is more hope in Father’s eyes, now, and I hurry upstairs to the second floor. I am not sure what to do with what I have just seen. My stomach feels...strange. Perhaps I ate something wrong today.  
  
Father arrives on the second floor shortly, Pennyworth apparently having remained downstairs to complete his evening dusting. The door to Drake’s room is ajar, but Father hovers near it for a while, probably preparing himself to witness once again Drake’s ugliness. Then again, I suppose he is a bit uglier than usual at the moment, and this might be the cause of the pause. I am about to offer encouragement when Thomas opens the door wider.  
  
“Bruce? You can come in, he’s just—” Thomas is interrupted by an evil cackle.  
  
A chill tingles down my spine, I am immediately ready for combat— death is only temporary for many of us, I would know, so I am prepared to aid Father in his fight against anyone, including a resurrected evil clown. After seeing him so often in my dreams, I have prepared myself for the event of his return.  
  
Thomas is shouting, now. “T-Tim, it’s cool!”  
  
I run into the room, ready for battle, but there is none to be had. It is merely Drake laughing, having some sort of fit, flailing his limbs about. His grotesque smile turns my stomach, it is unnaturally wide, and with the skin of his face so damaged, he looks like a monster, _the_ monster. I want to move, but my feet are rooted to the spot, my gaze nailed to Drake’s disgusting countenance. Why is he laughing? What could be so funny to him?  
  
“Damian!” Thomas shouts, trying to restrain Drake and not entirely succeeding. “Get Alfred, now!”  
  
I must _snap out of it_. “O-on it!”  
  
I run, leap down the final flight of stairs, rolling into a somersault at the bottom. “Pennyworth! Pennyworth!” I do not know where in the Manor I can find him, and Father seems to have vanished.  
  
“Master Damian!” Pennyworth appears, holding a feather duster. “How many times—?”  
  
“Pennyworth, it is Drake!” My voice cracks, but it doesn’t matter, now. “Something is wrong!”  
  
I follow Pennyworth up the stairs, praying he knows what to do. Drake has never done this before, and I can’t imagine why he _would._  
  
“Alfred!” Thomas says with relief. “I don’t know what happened, he just saw Bruce and then— ow!” Drake has caught Thomas in the face with his fist.  
  
“Timothy!” Alfred kneels at his bedside and takes his arms, and Thomas recovers and holds down his legs. “Master Timothy, please calm yourself! No one is here to harm you! You are safe at home!” It takes a few moments, but Drake eventually ceases and relaxes again, his laughter subsiding to listless chuckles.  
  
His voice is hoarse. “D-Dad…”  
  
“Oh, dear…” Alfred wipes Drake’s sweaty brow with his handkerchief. “Do rest, Master Timothy...”  
  
“What is wrong with him?” My voice is still shrill. My spine is ramrod straight, and I feel stuck in the doorway. Has Drake been brainwashed? Or is he being mind controlled, perhaps in a similar manner to the Mad Hatter’s implants, or the Scarecrow’s fear gas? Richard said that Dr. Thompkins promised he wasn’t poisoned anymore, so it couldn’t possibly be the residual effects of Joker gas.  
  
I clench my fists. _It is unbecoming to show fear._ Besides, I am _not_ afraid anyway.  
  
“I am not sure, Master Damian. Most likely a bad dream.” Alfred straightens and addresses Thomas. I do not know how he is always so calm. “Is your face alright, Master Duke?”  
  
“Huh? Oh, yeah.” Thomas glances at Drake hesitantly. “He’s so weak right now, I don’t think it’ll even bruise. But, um, do you mind if I…?” He points towards the door, looking a little queasy.  
  
I move out of the way and he rushes to the bathroom. Pennyworth is still preoccupied with Drake, so I follow to ensure Thomas’ well-being. Besides, I do not want to be in the room with Drake.  
  
“Thomas?”  
  
Only the sound of vomiting replies. I push open the bathroom door, which is ajar, and Thomas is leaning over the toilet. His forehead is sweaty, and his hands shake.  
  
“What’s wrong with you?!” I can’t help a bit of alarm.  
  
“Ah— nothing, Damian…” He takes some toilet paper and wipes his mouth. “I’m good, now…”  
  
“Tt.” I cross my arms. “Your health is no trivial matter, Thomas.”  
  
“Um, yeah.” He flushes the toilet, rinses his mouth out in the sink and appears to drink some tap water, which I would normally advise against, but I sense he is about to continue. “Thanks. But I’m good, really. I just...got really freaked out for a sec there.”  
  
He goes to his room after that, and he seems to wish to be alone, so I will respect that. I suppose he has had a traumatic past with the Joker, so this is probably especially difficult for him. I feel a bit guilty. Perhaps I should have considered Thomas’ history sooner. Perhaps I should spend more time watching Drake instead of Thomas. Yes, I suppose that is the least I can do.  
  
Stupid Drake. If he hadn’t been so terrible at his job, none of this would be happening. Talia would have let him die, to cull the weak. But Batman is the protector of the weak, so I must— wait…  
  
I glance down the hall, something stirring in my chest, a foreboding of some sort, like a stormcloud approaching, full of thunder and lightning yet to be unleashed, consenting to be blown across the sky at the whim of the wind...but only for now.  
  
There is no one else in the hall, but that is precisely the problem. The creature is back, trying to escape my body, climbing up my throat, catching my tongue in an iron grip.  
  
Where has Father gone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! :D <3
> 
> Feedback is appreciated, especially on how Damian turned out; I always have hard time in his POV balancing his lack of emotional intelligence with his book smarts, along with balancing his insecurities with his intense desire to hide them from himself, so I'm always afraid he came out weird :") haha
> 
> Also, if I were to add a second weekly update (not sure if I will yet, but I might since I'm decently far ahead with my rough draft :O), what day of the week would y'all prefer?
> 
> As always, entiendo español and 한국어도 이해해!


	5. Tim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise Friday update! >:D I have decided to update this fic twice weekly, once on Saturday as usual and another on a random different day of the week depending on my schedule! So this week, it's today and I'll also update tomorrow; next week the extra update will probably be Thursday night, but I'm not sure yet.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, kudos-ing, and especially commenting!! I really appreciate it~~ <3 <3

_Here ya go, sonny-boy!  
  
Something heavy and cold lands in my hands. My hands? My hands. What is it? What do I do with it?  
  
Make Daddy proud! Deliver the punch-line!  
  
But I can’t remember it. Please, I don’t know, I can’t remember it, Dad. Please don’t. I promise I’ll try harder. I remember how the joke starts, I promise! I do! But I just can’t remember how it ends, please...  
  
I think I’m laughing. Something’s funny. Everything’s funny.  
  
Tim.  
  
Something jolts inside. Dad?  
  
It’s okay, Tim.  
  
I think I’m crying, but I can’t I can’t I can’t I have to_ laugh—  
  
_It’s okay._  
  
I hear a voice. It sounds like Babs. Talking about an app. She’s developing it.  
  
This isn’t real. Or maybe it is. Have to find out. Or do I? Does it matter? If no one’s coming? This is a nice dream. If that’s what it is. I’ll take what I can get. Pathetic, maybe. But dignity hardly matters now. Right? I’ll tell myself that. That sounds good.  
  
She’s still talking. I can’t focus. But I want to. I think I do. A screen appears. Maybe a tablet. The glow hurts. I can’t see anything on it. Just some smudges.  
  
“C-can’t...sss…”  
  
She stops talking.  
  
It was nice. While it lasted. I squeeze my eyes tight. I open them. Nothing’s changed. Somehow. I don’t hear anyone laughing. Not even me. What’s going on? Why is he waiting?  
  
“Tim?” asks the voice. I move my eyes to it. Even though it’s useless. My vision’s been blurry. I don’t know how long. I see a vague splotch. A person, maybe. “Tim, can you hear me?”  
  
_Tim._ It’s been forever since I heard that. I don’t recognize it. Just a strange strung-together sound. T-i-m, tttiiiiimmmm. Gibberish.  
  
“Do you want me to read you the code?” Babs asks. Something urgent in her voice. I don’t know why. Maybe Daddy will be back soon.  
  
Until then, that sounds nice. “Yes...p...please…” I should mind my manners, even now. Manners are important. I don’t remember why. But _why_ doesn’t matter, right? Who can even answer that? _Why? Why?_  
  
The code is soothing. I like hearing her voice. I close my eyes. Resting.  
  
When I open them, it’s a man next to me. Daddy? I blink to try to clear my vision, but it doesn’t quite work. I feel my mouth stretching into a smile. The skin of my face feels stiff, strange, like I have a mask glued to my face and it’s tugging on my flesh. I wonder vaguely if that’s what’s happened. Maybe Damian spread some super-glue on my cowl, as a prank or something. Would he do that? I would’ve noticed, wouldn’t I? Then again, maybe not, considering how out of it I feel.  
  
Why am I smiling? Is someone taking my picture? No, it’s because he wants me to smile. If I don’t, he’ll do it again.  
  
“Dad?” My voice is hoarse with sleep. I hope he doesn’t think I haven’t been sleeping enough. He’s probably right, but I have work to do, work I can’t tell him about. Well, not anymore, I guess.  
  
“Tim! Tim, it’s Dick.” Someone puts a hand on my arm, and I flinch, expecting the pitiless jab of a needle. Pathetic, maybe, but dignity doesn’t matter anymore, hasn’t mattered for a long time. “You’re safe, now. You’re at the Manor.”  
  
“Manor...?” I realize I’m in a bed, now. I move my arm experimentally, expecting a sharp pain, but there’s nothing. Same with the other side. Is this real? I’ve had more vivid dreams on Daddy’s cocktail of drugs. My voice scratches out like sandpaper. “Is...this...real…?”  
  
“It’s real, Tim.” Dick squeezes my hand. “I promise you, it’s real.”  
  
_Could_ it be? My senses aren’t to be trusted anymore, that much I know. But it’s true my thoughts feel...clearer than they have in a while. I can string together more than five words at a time, and have multiple clauses in one sentence. I still feel sluggish, but better than I’ve been...Still, can his drugs create an illusion of sanity? An illusion of complex thought? Is this just my brain’s desperate attempt to escape the shocks and the serums? Am I finally dying?  
  
My mouth moves on its own. “Does it matter…?”  
  
“Of course it matters, Tim.” Dick sounds choked up. I want to tell him not to cry because of me, I didn’t mean to hurt him, not again, but instead I laugh. Why am I laughing? Was it what he said? It wasn’t a joke, but it was...quaint, almost?  
  
I’m out of breath from laughing, but I can’t stop until I’m gasping, shallow sandpaper breaths through my mouth. It wasn’t even that funny, was it?  
  
“Hey, hey, breathe…” Dick puts my hand to his chest. I feel it expand and deflate, try to mimic his pattern. I still can’t see anything clearly. “Breathe, Tim...There you go…”  
  
“I…” I gulp. My body hurts from laughing. I can’t remember how I got here, if it’s real. “What happened?” If he gives me a convincing story, maybe I’ll believe it.  
  
“Well...you were kidnapped…” Dick says carefully. “By the Joker…”  
  
That part sounds right.  
  
“He had you for three weeks…”  
  
“Three…?” I try to frown, but all I can do is smile again. To my drugged-up brain, it had felt more like three months. That probably would’ve been the estimate I’d have given if someone asked. So maybe this is real. But then again, maybe I’m fooling myself with a shocking piece of information— if I report to myself a “fact” that contradicts my instinct, maybe I’ll be more likely to conclude this is truly not a delusion. I don’t know; I can’t think. My head feels fuzzy, like a mold is growing in the folds of my brain.  
  
“Bruce and Babs—”  
  
_Bruce._ The room spins, bile rises in my throat, Dick is yelling, I’m laughing even though I’m choking, I can’t breathe, my chest is on fire, _is he coming—?  
  
He always did go through you Boy Blunders a little too quickly, didn’t he? Well, I promise you_ Daddy _won’t treat you like that. Daddy will make sure you’re safe_ forever.  
  
A pinch in my arm, and then everything’s funny. No, this isn’t right, is it, is it? I can’t see, can’t think can’t move can’t  
  
_Batsy replaced you so fast, didn’t he, Junior? And Dicky-boy was no better, hm? Let Daddy be with you. Tell me his name, Junior. Tell me his name and I’ll show him how he hurt you…_  
  
Bruce.  
  
I told Daddy everything. I know he’ll never forgive me.  
  
~~~  
  
_Seven across, a class of toxic pollutants mainly affecting water, often caused by industrial activity, eleven letters, the first of which is h, the second e, and the...seventh also e._  
  
Hm, I think I know this. I don’t know why we’re doing a crossword puzzle. Or who ‘we’ are. But that’s okay, because I like puzzles, even if I’m dreaming them up.  
  
“Heavy metals.” Is that my voice? It sounds foreign, like I’m a ventriloquist’s puppet. Is this how Arnold Wesker feels? I wonder how he’s doing these days.  
  
“Ah, I see that now, sir. Very good.” There’s a scratching sound. I focus on it, like grasping at a thread, using it to pull myself from the syrup surrounding my brain. My vision goes in and out, but I see a man in a suit sitting next to me.  
  
“Eight across, the most prominent newspaper in Metropolis, eleven letters.”  
  
I know his voice. It’s like a lighthouse beacon through the fog, like the eye of a hurricane. “Alfred…?”  
  
“Timothy?” He sits forward. I see his head, but it’s too blurry to see his face. My head feels like a million pounds, but at the same time I’m floating, like I’m not an occupant in my own skull. I wonder if that’s okay.  
  
“Alfred…” That’s a relief. I miss Alfred.  
  
He strokes my head, gently. “Can you hear me, Master Timothy?”  
  
“Yeah...” Slowly, things start to come into more focus. I’m in my old room at the Manor, from before Bruce died and I moved out. I can see Alfred looking at me, concerned. What’s he concerned about? Where’s Dad?  
  
“How do you feel?”  
  
“Oh… _Ow_ …”  
  
Something bad must have happened. Everything bad must have happened. Everything hurts, my whole body feels badly sunburned and I’m too weak to lift my arm. I think I must be concussed, because I can’t collect my thoughts, remember what happened. My insides must be a thick stew, stirred around with a big ladle and left to congeal in all the wrong positions. I’m heavy and light and bloated and shriveled all at once, like I’m calming down from a Scarecrow fear gas attack. Maybe that’s what happened. No, I was with Daddy. But what did we do together? I don’t remember. Is this real? The pain definitely feels real. Why wouldn’t it be? Oh God, is he coming?  
  
No, I’m here with Alfred. Dick said I’m safe. He promised. I ought to trust Dick. I try to take a deep breath, but my chest resists the expansion. I cough a little, but I can’t get any force behind it.  
  
Something warm and moist on my foot. It tickles a little, but I can’t move. “What’s...that…?”  
  
“Oh?” Alfred looks and chuckles. “Ah, that would be Ace. He’s been by your bedside this whole time, sir.”  
  
“Ace?” I want to see him, but my vision is blurring.  
  
He licks my toe again before Alfred covers it with the blanket. “Yes, he is an excellent guard dog, even in his old age.” He tucks the blanket around my sore body. “Do get some rest, sir. I’ll be up later with supper. Until then, Master Duke will sit with you.”  
  
My eyes are already closed.


	6. Conner

Clark joins me on the Waynes’ front lawn. “How you doin’, Kon?”  
  
I shrug. I’m not really sure how to answer that.  
  
I flew in from San Francisco just now, and I’m about to see Tim awake for the first time in almost two months. They let me see him a few times while he was still unconscious, but once he woke up, Nightwing suggested I wait until he’s ready for more visitors— family only, apparently. I’m still a little pissed they didn’t call me to help search the _moment_ they realized he was missing. Damn Batman and his stupid pride.  
  
Cassie and Bart wanted to come today, too, but apparently the Bats don’t want to overwhelm Tim with too many people at once. I guess it makes sense. Nightwing said he’s prone to panic attacks, and apparently his mind is still muddy and fragile.  
  
I guess the wait let me do a little research, at least, like what to do if someone has a panic attack, or a flashback. Sometimes I have to remind myself I’m not even five years old, yet, so I guess it’s good they told me to wait, so that it occurred to me to prepare and learn instead of just busting in and possibly making things worse.  
  
Still, it’s annoying that they wouldn’t just brief me and let me see my best friend. I never liked the idea of Tim flying solo in Gotham anyway, but I didn’t want to be an overprotective douche. I know he can handle himself. But still, he should be able to rely on his so-called family to find him _quick_ if he gets kidnapped by the godforsaken _Joker_.  
  
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing at the jug Clark is holding.  
  
“Oh, I stopped by the farm earlier, thought I’d bring over some farm-fresh milk.”  
  
“Tim doesn’t like milk,” I say. I know it’s childish, but I can’t help snapping at him a little. Clark should have called and let me know as soon as he heard from Batman that Red Robin was missing. But I guess he probably figured one of the other Bat kids would have had the decency to tell me. Stupid goth losers— the whole lot of them.  
  
Clark frowns and raises both eyebrows, like the beefhead can’t even comprehend a person not liking milk. “No?”  
  
I huff. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just go in.”  
  
Alfred lets us in with his usual deadpan greeting. “Master Tim is in his old room, resting.”  
  
“I see him,” I say, scanning the upper floors. He still looks like a wreck, from what I can see from down here. I’ll need a closer look. “Thanks, Alfred.”  
  
I use a little flight to surmount the stairs faster; Clark has a strict ‘no powers’ rule for our civilian identities, and Batman has always had a similar one for his entire city (territorial, much?), but no one will know I’m using my powers as long as I touch the stairs with my feet on the way up.  
  
I look at Tim through the door to check things out before I go in. He’s in bed, propped up by a bunch of pillows. He looks so thin and weak I want to cry. His eyes are bloodshot and glassy, with puffy dark circles underneath. They took the stitches out of his cheeks, but there are still thick, raised scars where the Joker cut him. Where his skin isn’t covered by bandages, it’s a lifeless patchwork of his natural pale tone and the Joker’s lousy bleach job. They shaved his hair to check better for head injuries, but it’s starting to grow back in after a month. I peek under his button-down pajamas and under the bandages, where his skin is cracked and scarred from chemical burns, in some places blackened from the electrodes, and in other places red from pressure sores. His wrists and ankles are still slightly bruised from being tied up for so long.  
  
I realize my fists are clenched, hard enough to snap iron girders. Now that Tim’s awake, the anger’s back. Thank the stars the Joker is already dead. Otherwise I might have ripped him limb from limb. It doesn’t help me chill out that Nightwing is sitting with Tim, dressed in civilian workout clothes. I won’t waste any time kicking that son of a bitch out.  
  
I back up a few steps down the hall and walk a little louder so that Tim can hear me coming. He’s never liked being snuck up on, and it said online that I should try not to startle or stress him out. Then I stop deliberately in front of the door and knock softly. “Tim?”  
  
I see his eyes light up through the door. His smile doesn’t look quite right, but I know his brain’s a little muddled right now, so I brush it aside. “Kon?”  
  
I ease the door open and step inside. Nightwing smiles and nods at me, but I give him a purposeful cold shoulder, keeping my eyes on Tim. “Hey, bro.”  
  
He just keeps smiling at me, though he can’t seem to see me. His eyes are unfocused, odd. I pull up another chair to sit next to him. I reach out to touch him before I remember that it said online to ask first. “Mind if I…?” I trail off, because he’s started to giggle. It sounds off, not like Tim’s normal laugh. A small tremor goes down my spine. “Uh…” They hadn’t mentioned that the Joker venom hadn’t worn off, yet.  
  
Nightwing is shoving me out of the way a second later. “Hey, Tim, Tim, stay with me!”  
  
I can hear Tim’s heart racing, he’s not breathing right, and the laughing is just making it worse, like he can’t stop. He’s looking at nothing, but I can see the fear in his eyes. This must be a panic attack.  
  
Nightwing is practically shouting, now, so I push _him_ out of the way. My turn. It said to speak calmly and gently. My voice trembles a little at first, but I get the hang of it quick. “Hey, Timbo, it’s Kon. I’m right here, you’re safe.” I’m not sure if he wants me to touch him at first, but he reaches for something, so I give him my arm, put a hand on his back, careful to avoid the burns. He’s clutching my arm, pulling me closer, almost into a hug, and I let him. I can feel pressure rising in my chest, my heart rate jumping up, but I fight it down. The number one thing is to remain calm, that’s what it said. I keep talking softly. “You’re safe. This’ll pass. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”  
  
Tim nods, but he’s still wheezing between breathless fits of laughter. This is a weird symptom I didn’t see on any of the articles I read, but maybe it has to do with leftover Joker venom or something. His body’s shaking, with nerves or exertion, I’m not sure. “It’s alright, I’ve got you.” Maybe talking about something else will help. “Bart and Cassie wanted to come see you, too, but we didn’t want to be too much. Especially Bart. He’s a lot, isn’t he?” I recount a few silly stories about Bart’s shenanigans, some from back in our Teen Titans days, reminding him every once in a while to breathe, which seems to help Tim calm down. He’s still gripping my arm as hard as he can, hugging it to his chest, but that’s okay. We both know it won’t hurt me.  
  
Finally, he’s able to stop laughing. “W-water…?” His voice is a croak from overuse.  
  
“Yeah, of course.” I can’t reach the nightstand without letting go of Tim, but Nightwing beats me to it anyway, picking up the cup and holding it to Tim’s lips.  
  
“S-sorry…” Tim mumbles, his eyelids drooping. “I’m sorry…Got scared...all of a sudden...”  
  
“There’s nothing to be sorry for, bro.” I lay him back against the pillows, gently. Slowly, he loosens his grip on my arm, but he keeps holding my hand, so I keep a gentle pressure there to ground him. It’s apparently normal to be exhausted after a panic attack. “Just get some rest, okay? Is it okay if I stay with you?”  
  
His eyes are already closing. “Y-yeah…”  
  
“Cool. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”  
  
He doesn’t respond, but I can hear that his heart rate is more relaxed, his breaths more even. I’m pretty tired myself from the tension of being worried about him, but I’ll be fine. It’s more important that I be there for him. Nightwing sits back down next to me. I haven’t been paying attention to him, but it seems like he’s been here the whole time.  
  
“You’re good,” he says.  
  
I resist the urge to say, _you’re not_. I know Tim would say to cut him some slack. Nightwing is trying his best, probably. I mean, I actually thought he was pretty cool before. I never had a problem with the guy until Tim told me _how_ he became Red Robin after I died, and after that I could never quite look at Dick Grayson the same. I understand wanting to help Damian, but helping one brother at the expense of another is an obvious mistake. “Thanks. I researched what to do online.”  
  
Nightwing looks impressed at that. Sucks to suck, I guess. “Wow. You’re a great friend, Conner.”  
  
I shrug. “I try. You can go, now—” I stop myself. “You probably need some rest.” I mentally high-five Tim. Nice save, Kon. “I’ll stay with him.”  
  
Nightwing raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure? You’ve been here a while.”  
  
I raise an eyebrow in return. “What do you—?” Then I see the clock above Tim’s bed. It’s been half an hour. “Oh. Well, I’m fine.” I point a thumb at my chest, even though I’m not wearing my ‘S’ shirt. “Superboy, you know?”  
  
“Right.” Nightwing smiles slightly. “Superboy.”  
  
He leaves us alone after that. It’s another hour or two before Tim wakes up, but it’s no big deal; I just text Bart and Cassie a bit, scroll through my social media. I pointedly _don’t_ like the Daily Planet’s updates for the day. Clark and his farm-fresh milk can go suck it. I bet it was still all lukewarm and everything from his laser-pasteurization.  
  
“H-hello…?” Tim’s voice is still hoarse.  
  
“Hey, bro, it’s Kon.” Without thinking, I touch his arm, and he flinches. “Sorry, that was just me...” I hope I didn’t scare him too bad. I tried not to think about it, distracting myself with my phone, but I can’t really find words to describe how much this epically _blows_. I kinda want to cry again, but that wouldn’t be very helpful so I just swallow it back, try to just be glad Tim survived at all.  
  
“Where’s Daddy…?”  
  
They said he was having memory problems, so not to be surprised if he doesn’t make sense. But if he might not even remember this conversation later, I figure there’s no point in telling him Mr. Drake has been dead for years, now. “He’s out, um, shopping.”  
  
“Oh.” He closes his eyes again, and for a moment I think he went back to sleep, but then they open again. “I’m sorry, Kon...I didn’t mean to freak out…”  
  
“It’s all good, man.” I wish he wouldn’t apologize for stuff out of his control, but that’s Tim, I guess. “Any time you need to freak out, I’m here.”  
  
We chat a bit more. He wants to know how things have been going in San Francisco, which isn’t really important right now, but I guess it’s a distraction for him so I try to make it interesting. Still, it isn’t long before his eyelids start to droop.  
  
“It’s okay, you can sleep,” I say. It seems like he’s trying to stay awake to listen to me ramble.  
  
“Don’t wanna sleep…” Tim mumbles, but his eyes are closed.  
  
“Oh, okay. Then wanna watch some Animal Planet?” It used to be one of his favorite channels, before streaming services pretty much replaced cable; I wasn’t alive when it was really popular, but my friends have all shown me their favorite cable shows.  
  
We watch a few episodes of Steve Irwin’s nature shows, though I’m keeping an eye on Tim more than the crocodile expert; he seems to go back and forth between awake and asleep, confused and lucid. Nightwing said the confusion might clear up eventually, but Batgirl added that it might not; from the little I’ve talked to her, she’s always been the more realistic of the two.  
  
But I’m thinking there’s gotta be some magic cure or alien tech or _something_ that can fix this for sure, but apparently Raven’s already done everything she can. Still, there’s Zatanna, Dr. Fate, I know Starfire’s got a spaceship. Maybe one of the Green Lanterns will have an idea.  
  
Now that I’ve got a better idea of how to describe Tim’s problem, I’ll talk to the Leaguers myself; I’m not satisfied with Clark talking to them— he might be Superman when he puts on the tights, but on the inside he’s always Clark Kent, so kind of a pushover. He’s always too soft when he asks them for stuff. Sometimes you just gotta demand it, and _then_ they’ll admit they know something.  
  
Alfred comes in then to change Tim’s bandages, and more or less kicks me out, but that’s fine. I trust Alfred, at least, so I say bye to Tim and promise I’ll be back soon.  
  
I spend the next week grilling any superhero who’ll listen, but I’m not getting back anything definitive. Apparently this is out of Zatanna’s skillset, Zach Zatara is even less helpful, and Dr. Fate is a straight-up douchebag who apparently has more important “cosmic disturbances” to deal with, didn’t even pretend like he’d _want_ to help if he had time. I would have punched him if I could, but Clark warned me there’s no point picking a fight with Dr. Asshole. At least I got Zatanna to promise to send John Constantine my way the next time she hears from him, but she said not to get my hopes up; apparently it will probably involve demons and selling souls, plus the risk that we won’t even get what we paid for, because demons are like that.  
  
Cassie asks Wonder Woman if there’s any Amazonian artifact or something that can help, but there isn’t; Amazons honor their fallen, but they don’t really try to restore them. Especially since Amazons usually aim to come out of battle victorious or dead, and Amazons are good at getting what they want.  
  
Martian Manhunter says his telepathy isn’t equipped to rearrange a Martian mind, much less a human one with physical damage, and besides he doesn’t approve of doing so anyway. Hal Jordan and John Stewart don’t have any ideas, but they promise to keep their ears open, and I _do_ punch Guy Gardner for the comments he made.  
  
I’m talking over coffee with Cyborg, now, but apparently the problem with a lot of alien treatments is that they won’t work on or might even destroy a human. As far as we know, none of our human colleagues have ever tried any alien treatment for traumatic brain injury, so we can’t be sure it’s safe. So space cures are more or less out due to the risk.  
  
“Can’t you, like, do a brain surgery on him or something?”  
  
Cyborg takes a swig of his coffee, sighs. “I wish I could, Conner, but the human brain is way more complicated than that. Even with the cutting-edge science that made _me_ , we still don’t fully understand how the brain works. Not enough to do something like that without crazy risk. It’s more likely he’ll turn out worse than better if I tried that.”  
  
“Right…” I put my chin in my hand. This _sucks_. “Anyone you know who might be able to help?”  
  
Cyborg gives it a thought for a second. “You could try a telepath. M’gann might be able to rearrange his memories or something.”  
  
“I asked J’onn, he said it wouldn’t work.”  
  
“He’s also said her telepathy is way stronger than his,” Cyborg points out. “But then again, she’s not exactly the most stable herself. Not sure you’d want her messing around in Tim’s head, much less whether _Tim_ would want that.”  
  
“Yeah…” I sigh.  
  
“You could try Niles Caulder, but, um…” Cyborg winces a little. “I’d call that one a last resort. He’s not exactly trustworthy.” I must look really glum, because Cyborg reaches across the table, puts a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, don’t give up hope, yet. One thing we _do_ know about the human brain is that it’s scary plastic.”  
  
An image of a Halloween shop pops up in my mind’s eye. “Huh?”  
  
“You know, like, _adaptable_. Just be patient, wait and see how Tim recovers without any supernatural interference, and _then_ maybe think about extranormal treatments. Sound good?”  
  
I sigh. “I guess it’s our best option.” Still, I have one more in mind, but Cyborg won’t like it, so I keep quiet. We stand, clasp hands, clap each other on the back. “Thanks for hearing me out, Vic.”  
  
“Of course, man.” He nods. “Titans forever, right?”  
  
I manage a small smile. “Right.”  
  
~~~  
  
“Mercy.”  
  
The bodyguard jumps over the desk, her arm opening up into a mechanized cannon weapon. I know from experience it hurts, if it can’t do anything permanent.  
  
Still, I can beat her any day. Nevertheless, I hold up my hands in surrender. “Look, I’m not here to fight.”  
  
Luthor studies me for a moment. I bypassed security downstairs by super-speeding past all the guards and lasering through his security system, but I know it’ll hardly make a dent in his budget, so not a huge deal. I caught him sitting at his mahogany desk, typing on his computer, but he doesn’t even seem alarmed to see me. I guess I’m no Superman, but still, I’m not sure if it’s an insult or not.  
  
Luthor’s mouth twists into what’s supposed to be a smile. He raises a hand, and Mercy stands down, retakes her place standing behind him. “Interesting. Then what _are_ you doing here, Conner?”  
  
I take a deep breath. I hate what I’m about to say, but… “I need your help, if you can give it to me.” I’m decently convinced he’s been hiding advancements in human medicine so that he can make a bigger profit selling the treatments later. I know Tim would be upset if he finds out I turned to Luthor on his account, but I’m considering this my very last try before I give up on ‘extranormal treatments,’ as Cyborg called them. And if it doesn’t work out, I won’t be telling Tim I was here.  
  
“I see…” Luthor leans back in his swivel chair, steeples his fingers. “Typical of you, to only come to me when you need something.”  
  
“You help me, _then_ you can expect a Father’s Day card,” I snap.  
  
Luthor is still smirking at me, condescending dirtbag. “Fair enough.” He stands, walks to the other side of the desk, leans against it casually. I’m not sure I like how safe he apparently feels around me. I’m sure he has a Kryptonite weapon around somewhere. Still, I’m not planning on giving him reason to use it, and Luthor’s not an impulsive guy. “I assume this has to do with your little friend…?”  
  
“How did you—…?” Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. I have no idea how he heard about this.  
  
“Timothy Drake-Wayne, yes, I’m quite aware of any movements _he_ makes…” Luthor waves a hand noncommittally, but I can sense how smug he is.  
  
“Why?”  
  
Luthor shrugs noncommittally. “He’s become a dangerous adversary. He’s a bit more business-savvy than Batman. You’ll be pleased to know he’s used Wayne Enterprises to get in my way more than once, not to mention even Ra’s al Ghul himself fears the young man’s mind. When Drake disappeared, I was hoping he was dead.” Luthor chuckles darkly. “But no such _luck._ ”  
  
I cross my arms. Even if he _does_ have a cure, I’m not sure I can trust him, now. “So you know everything, then, huh? Can you help me or not?”  
  
Luthor raises an eyebrow. “ _Can_ I? Obviously, I can. That’s why you came to me. You’re desperate.” The glint in his eye makes me sick. “But considering what I just told you, why would I? You don’t have anything to offer me.”  
  
He’s right. There’s nothing material I can give him that he doesn’t already have. I can’t intimidate him, I can’t hurt him. I won’t kill him, and he knows it. There’s only one thing I can think of he might accept. “What about a favor?”  
  
He raises an eyebrow at me, but he’s not surprised, just feigning it. “You’re willing to cross lines over this? What would your little Red Robin think of that?”  
  
He’s right, and he knows it. Geez, I hate him. “Can’t you do the right thing for once in your life, Lex?”  
  
He laughs humorlessly. He turns and faces the floor-to-ceiling windows behind his desk, folds his hands behind his back. The sun is setting bright orange against the Metropolis skyline, casting Luthor’s office in a reddish glow, like emergency lights.  
  
“I know you’re still young, but there’s something you need to understand about the real world, son.” The hair on the back of my neck stands straight at the word. “It’s a shame, it really is, but the truth is _everything_ is politics. There’s no _right thing_ , just right _for you_ or right for _someone else_. Life is all about—”  
  
“Please. I’m not that naive kid I was when I first came out of your pod.” My fists are clenched, but I keep my feet rooted to the spot. I’m not here to break things, as much as I want to. “You keep telling yourself whatever you need to to sleep at night, I don’t care. If you’re not going to help, then at least save the lecture.”  
  
Luthor turns around, studies me for a while before speaking. “You knew from the start I wouldn’t help, didn’t you? So why did you come?”  
  
I turn and walk out of the office. I’m not playing his games. I get the gist— Tim’s a threat, so Luthor’s happy that he thinks he won’t have to deal with Tim anymore. He never even considered helping, even though he claimed he could, because as impossible as it seems to me sometimes, there really are people that terrible out there. Still, I had to be sure before ruling it out.  
  
I take a deep breath once I’m outside. The crisp November air is refreshing, clears a bit of the anger seeing Luthor always stirs up. That egghead can go frick himself, now.  
  
I take off, flying back towards Gotham City.  
  
I’ve got a few _right things_ to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! <3 
> 
> I love writing Conner tbh, he's such a pure baby himbo~ I think I ended up basing him more off his portrayal in Teen Titans (2003), but my first exposure to him was the Young Justice cartoon, so perhaps some of its influences have slipped in. Definitely my favorite Lex Luthor is from the 2003 Justice League cartoon, though; it's a classic haha
> 
> Anywho, always feel free to lemme know your thoughts! I love hearing from y'all <3


	7. Barbara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Hope y'all had a great Thanksgiving :D 
> 
> For context, this chapter takes place around Batgirl (2016-) #26-7, but you don't need to read those to get the gist or anything; just if anyone was curious about the timeline :P  
> Also, Frankie and Alycia are Barbara's friends from the aforementioned comic, but I don't know if they appear in anything older than that ^^;
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy~

The railing of the fire escape is rusty and unsanded, digging into the flesh of my hands. I don’t remember what I did with my gloves. Maybe I lost them in the River, along with my dinner. Oh God, I don’t remember. I squeeze the railing tighter, gotta pull myself together, I don’t have time for this. Frankie’s home, maybe she can— I don’t know what Frankie can do to help me, but maybe I’ll at least calm down a little with her there.  
  
I knock on the window, come on, Frankie, hurry—  
  
Her eyes widen, she shoves the window open, reaches for me. “Oh my God! You okay?”  
  
I lie, my voice going shrill. “Y-yeah…” It’s a relief to have someone to hang on to. I have to let go to get in the window, though, and I trip on the windowsill, crash into the kitchen table. “Ow!”  
  
Frankie takes my arm to steady me. “Do you need an ambulance, or what?”  
  
“No, I’m fine,” I say, though I can feel a migraine coming on. I don’t remember how, but somehow I end up sitting on the couch, an aspirin tablet and water in my hands. I take the aspirin and drink all the water, whip the mask off and lean my head back on the couch. I can tell my implant’s rebooted, because _ow._  
  
Frankie pulls out the first aid kit we keep under the sink, starts cleaning and bandaging some of the scratches I got in my fight with Grotesque. Mostly on my back. Somehow, I managed to…oh, God, why don’t I remember?  
  
Frankie’s voice is barely controlled. “Babs, hello? Are you in there?”  
  
“Yeah, I’m here, sorry, Frankie.” I don’t want to scare her, but my heart is still pounding in my throat, I can feel the anxiety rising in my chest. I can’t remember, that isn’t supposed to happen, it’s _never_ happened, oh God… “I-I got hit in my implant...It’s rebooting, that’s all…”  
  
She puts a cold finger to the scar in the small of my back. I’m grateful I can still feel the chill tingle up and down my spine. “Yeah, it looks like you got a _burn_ or something…”  
  
His electric baton! That’s what happened. Why can’t I…? Tears spring to my eyes. “Frankie...I...something’s wrong, I can’t remember what happened…” I always told myself, no matter what happens to my body, as long as I have my mind, I’ll be alright. But this is...  
  
“Girl, I really think the hospital might be in order, here…”  
  
“I-I’ll call Dr. Thompkins…”  
  
It’s the middle of the night, but thankfully Dr. Thompkins is willing to make a special home visit for me after I tell her what happened. After she examines me, she tells me to just get some rest for now, see a specialist tomorrow, but probably they’ll just tell me to rest, too. In my fear, I agree to her instructions without any protest. I peel off my costume, lie on the couch, close my eyes. I can see the veins in my eyelids.  
  
“Barbara, you really need to consider…”  
  
I know what she’s going to say. “I can’t stop, Dr. Thompkins. Grotesque is still out there...I have to…”  
  
“You don’t _have_ to do anything, child, I wish you would see that.” Dr. Thompkins pulls her coat on; she’s called an Uber to take her home. “Luckily, he didn’t _quite_ manage to hit your implant with any serious electricity. But if he’d gotten a more accurate shot, you realize you could have died tonight?”  
  
I know. I know. I swallow, my mouth full of sand. “He’s killing people…innocent people...”  
  
“I’ll talk to her tomorrow,” Frankie promises. “Thanks, Dr. Thompkins.”  
  
That gets Dr. Thompkins to relent, and she leaves our apartment. Frankie brings me a blanket.  
  
“Anything else you need, Babs?”  
  
“Call Alycia? Tell her I won’t be in tomorrow…”  
  
“Yeah, sure.”  
  
I know Frankie thinks it’s because I’m going to the doctor, but I’m not, not yet. Knowing that I’ll probably be alright with some rest, my memory will probably return to normal within a week or two, relaxes me a bit so I can refocus on the mission.  
  
I have to take care of Grotesque first, before he murders and mutilates any more innocent people. The last one was a young woman, beheaded, her arms cut off, costume wings lashed to her back, her corpse propped up drunkenly in a mockery of Nike of Samothrace— an ancient Greek statue of the goddess of victory. Grotesque is just taunting me, now.  
  
I know the others would tell me I’m being reckless, but now this is personal. I know exactly what it’s like to be treated like someone’s sick little art project, and I will _not_ sit by and let that happen to anyone else.  
  
I close my eyes again.  
  
_I should have checked the door.  
  
Miss Gordon! So sorry to drop in so suddenly!  
  
I can’t move, I can’t breathe, oh God, I can’t feel my legs—  
  
I hope you’re ready for our little date!  
  
The scissors are cold against my flesh, cutting through my GCPD t-shirt, the one I wear to sleep, down the legs of my sweatpants. My vision fades in and out, I’m hot and cold at the same time, oh God, I think I’m dying, I don’t want to— I can’t…  
  
His hands are on me, dry and scratchy and filthy, I see the eye of the camera staring down at me, oh God, if I get out of this I’ll— I don’t know, where’s Bruce? Where the_ hell _is Batman?  
  
The click of the shutter, and he giggles, dips his fingers in the blood,_ my _blood, smears it against my skin, and the camera sees me again. He fingerpaints a smile across my cheeks, cooing, the shutter makes clicks like machine gun fire. This would be fine, kill me, torture me, anything, just_ please _don’t show anyone—_  
  
“Babs! Wake up!” Frankie is shaking me.  
  
“Frankie…?” I sit up slowly. My head is pounding. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“You were screaming, Babs.” She sits on the couch next to me, leans her cane on the coffee table. The first aid kit is still there.  
  
“Yeah, sorry…” My hands are still tingling, shaking a little as the dream comes back to me, floating in like a fog. “I just had a nightmare, that’s all. I’m good, now.”  
  
“You wanna talk about it?”  
  
“No, I’m fine.” I stand experimentally. I feel a little weak in the knees, but I think it’s from fear. I stretch, take a few deep breaths to calm down, focus on the feeling in my legs. “Thanks, Frankie.”  
  
I manage to get to my room, even though I can feel Frankie watching me. I crawl into bed, pull the covers up to my chin, lay there for a while with my eyes open. The moonlight streaming in from the window is like a spotlight on me.  
  
_No.  
  
Barbara Gordon, we are not going down this path right now. There’s no time for—  
  
Shit. _  
  
The sob forces its way up from my chest, out my mouth. I try to suppress it, but a pitiful whine still escapes. I clamp a hand over my mouth. Hot tears drip into my pillow, I can feel my sinuses starting to congest. Oh, God, I haven’t had that dream in so damn long, and now it’s just— _back!_ I want to be over this, I don’t want to be scared anymore.  
  
This whole thing is just too much. Grotesque shorted out my implant, my memories are still spotty, and even though there’s probably no permanent damage to my brain, not being able to remember everything like normal is fucking _terrifying,_ and oh God—  
  
I know there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Relapse is normal, and I’ll get through it. But goddammit, I _don’t want to deal with this right now…_  
  
At some point, I must have cried myself to sleep, because my eyes open stickily at 11:48 in the morning. So I also massively overslept, too. Could this get any worse?  
  
I sit up experimentally. The soreness of yesterday is mostly gone.  
  
Frankie’s at work already, but she left me some eggs and toast covered in foggy saran wrap, plus a note reminding me to rest up. While I eat, I start to call Dick, but I stop myself.  
  
I’m sure he’s not doing well, after everything that’s happened with Tim, plus Bruce taking this so hard...Dick’s already been in town since Bruce’s breakup, cheering him up, and I can’t imagine Bruce has made it easy. Bruce tends to get so wrapped up in his own pain, he forgets the rest of us aren’t made of steel. So I shouldn’t bother Dick with my problems.  
  
My phone buzzes, and weirdly, it’s Jay.  
  
_U free rn?_  
  
I call him as a response so that whatever we’re about to talk about won’t exist on written record. “Jay?”  
  
“Hey, Babs. I hope this isn’t a bad time. It’s not urgent.”  
  
“No, I’m not doing anything right now.” I stuff the last of the toast in my mouth. “What’s up?”  
  
“Um, well, I was wondering if...you could, um, fix my computer. Seems kinda busted, but I’m not sure what’s wrong.”  
  
“Yeah, sure.” It’s a welcome distraction, and it reminds me that I’m still needed. I don’t have time to break down.  
  
He gives me the address, and it’s by midtown, which is perfect because I also need to stop by the police station for info on Grotesque’s case.  
  
Forty-five minutes later, I meet Jay at his safehouse on Crime Alley. It’s a tidy little underground bunker, just one room (aside from the bathroom) with kitchen, bedroom, and workspace all rolled into one. He’s taken one of his guns apart on the coffee table in the kitchen area. True to Alfred’s training, his kitchen is spotless. I’m a little surprised; usually kids his age are a hot mess. Wait— well, I guess he’s not really a kid anymore.  
  
He gestures vaguely at the computer, which thankfully has a normal-sized monitor I don’t need to crane my neck to look at. The computer itself is alright— a little outdated compared to the Bat computer, but I suppose it’s not a fair comparison. An error message has popped up on the screen. I sit in the chair and get to work, and Jay sits in front of the coffee table to resume whatever he was doing with his gun.  
  
At first, we both work in silence, but it isn’t long before I notice the custom code— I recognize the style. “When…?”  
  
Jason doesn’t hear me at first. “What?”  
  
My eyes start watering, but I blink the tears back, try to keep my voice from cracking. “When, um, when did Tim do this for you?”  
  
“Oh.” Jay’s quiet for a moment. “Well, probably back in...gee, I don’t know. A year ago at least.”  
  
It’s not routed to another computer automatically, and I don’t see any failsafe mechanisms against the user. Geez, Tim… “He really trusted you, huh?” I tell Jay about the pointed lack of security; Bruce would never have done it, and truthfully, I probably would have left an easy backdoor for myself too, just to be safe.  
  
I thought it might make Jay feel better, but he just buries his face in his hands. “ _Shit._ ”  
  
“Jason…”  
  
He stands abruptly, paces around the room, muttering curses under his breath. Awkwardly, I just turn back to the computer. The bug in the code was minor, and I’ve fixed it, now. In the reflection in the screen, I can see Jay still pacing, his hands on his head like an arrestee.  
  
Finally, he squats, sits against the wall. His sob is quiet, like he’s afraid to be heard.  
  
For a moment, I pretend I don’t hear him; maybe he’ll regain his composure in a second and...no, I should…  
  
I stand slowly, tiptoe over, for some reason I feel I need to be quiet, and sit next to him.  
  
This is uncharted territory for us. Even seeing Jay in civilian clothes is unfamiliar, after all his time away from the family. I haven’t seen him in a t-shirt, much less get emotional like this, since he was a kid. Still, I guess I always knew his choice of costume was deliberate— his helmet hides all possible emotional display behind a facade of red-hot anger. He uses guns because Batman says not to, but also because they’re good when you want to keep your distance. He’s always been the type to strike first because he’s afraid of being struck. But now, here he is, in his raggedy sweatshirt and holey jeans, no mask to hide behind. Now he’s that kid again, that kid I affectionately thought of as a little brother.  
  
“Goddammit, Babs…”  
  
His voice breaks me out of my thoughts. I realize I’m crying, too. I sniffle, wipe my eyes with the heel of my hand. “Y-yeah…?”  
  
He takes a shaky breath. His voice is raw. “Why are we such a fucking _mess_?”  
  
I manage a smile, even though tears drop from both eyes when I do. “W-wish I knew…”  
  
“The...the goddamn J-Joker…” From the twist of his mouth, I know he hates that he stuttered. “I’ve never wanted to kill him so bad…”  
  
_Shit._ We still haven’t told anyone who really killed the Joker. I don’t know how Jay would take it, and besides it’d betray an unspoken pact with Bruce not to tell anyone. I don’t know yet how I feel about keeping quiet, but for now, I know I’m not ready to see Jason’s reaction if I were to tell him the truth. I have no idea what he’d do.  
  
When I don’t answer, Jay continues. “You’re too good for this stuff, you know that?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’ve never heard you say _once_ that you wanna kill him…”  
  
I close my eyes. I’m not ready to go there, not after last night. “Jay…”  
  
“It’s not fair…” His fists are clenched so tight his knuckles are white. “I was a stupid, cocky brat, so of course I got killed. It was just a matter of time. But you and Tim...you guys did _nothing_ wrong… _Nothing._ And still...just...just who are we supposed to blame for this?”  
  
I don’t know that we need to blame anyone for this. I don’t want to blame anyone but the Joker. To me, that’s the simplest solution, the cleanest fix. I don’t understand Jason’s need to blame this on someone. Doesn’t that just needlessly overcomplicate everyone’s recovery?  
  
The agitation in his voice is palpable. “You’ve really never thought about it?”  
  
The anger flares in my chest. How _dare_ he ask me that? “I’m not like you.” I regret saying it the moment it’s out of my mouth, but he just nods.  
  
“Right...Yeah, I forgot.” It’s a dumb excuse, and we both know it, but I accept the apology. He’ll have to take that as mine.  
  
I sniffle, straighten my posture. “Well, computer’s fixed.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“Sure.” I stand, offer him my hand. He takes it, and I pull him up a bit, though he’s too big for me to really help much. Geez, I remember when he was only up to my shoulder…  
  
He shoves his hands in the front pocket of his sweatshirt. “I’ll, um, see you around then?”  
  
“Yeah, soon.” I give him a loose hug, which he hesitantly returns, and then I leave.  
  
I know maybe I was a bit unfair to him. He was never able to process through his trauma the way I was— he’s never had a support network like mine. And maybe if he’d asked me yesterday, I’d have finally been able to admit it, but after last night, I can’t go there.  
  
_Weakling_ , a little voice whispers. Maybe I should be stronger, not let something that happened so long ago affect me like this. I shouldn’t be so easy to throw off, to defeat.  
  
No, I’m _not_ defeated.  
  
_Especially_ not by Grotesque.  
  
From here, I can walk to the police station. But first, I need to freshen up a bit; I wasn’t expecting to have a cry session at Jason’s safehouse, of all places. Not one more person is going to get hurt just because I couldn’t pull myself together.  
  
I find a public restroom, splash some cold water on my face, look at myself in the dirty mirror.  
  
_You are not the Joker’s plaything. You are not an object. You are worth so much more than that._  
  
I repeat the words to myself, first in my head and then aloud, until I can think that maybe they’re true. I dry my face on a handkerchief from my bag, nod firmly at my reflection.  
  
_I am Barbara Gordon. I am Batgirl._  
  
And Grotesque is going down.  
  
~~~  
  
_“Tim,_ please, _can you hear me? It’s Barbara!”  
  
“Tell me, Ms. Gordon, what do you think?”  
  
Every muscle in my body seizes, Tim laughs and runs away from me, but I can’t make a move to stop him, can’t blink, can’t breathe. How could he—?  
  
“Ah, yes, my little Junior told me_ everything, _darling.” He sticks his thumbs in his pockets, straightens his arms out, pulls a fake pipe out from somewhere and puts it in his mouth. “Including that little Babsy’s never told dear ol’ dad about her nights on the town! As a father myself, I’d_ never _approve.”  
  
The words stick in my throat, choke me.  
  
Stay away from my dad, if you touch him, I swear—  
  
He sighs mockingly, smiles sickly sweet. “It makes me so_ giddy _to think that all this time, it was_ you _behind the mask, Ms. Gordon! Who ever thought Bats, Commish, and I would all share custody?” He cackles at his own joke.  
  
“I’m not afraid of you, Joker.” My voice trembles.  
  
“No? Good! Then you’ll be_ honest. _” He walks closer to me, but my feet are sunk in quicksand. Fuck. He’s so close I can smell his rancid breath. Where’s Batman? “You and I had a_ splendid _little arts-and-crafts session, way back then, now didn’t we? So your opinion is especially important…_ Do _tell Daddy, Babsy-boo, as one of my finest works...”  
  
I hear Tim’s hysterical giggling behind me, like he’s drowning.  
  
Joker’s voice goes low, sinister, all sneering smug smiles. “What do you think of my magnum opus?”  
  
I see red. I take out a Batarang, I’m going to sever his carotid artery, but his hyenas are on me and I can’t. He’s cackling, Bruce is on him, and I lure the animals away. I don’t stop until both animals are twitching on the ground, sticky blood and mincemeat in hot puddles.  
  
And then the Joker is falling, the trick bullet sticking out of his chest, that stupid little “Bang!” flag fluttering as he stumbles back. He clutches at the wound, blood blossoming on his lips.  
  
“That’s...not...funny…!”  
  
He hits the floor with a wet thump, face-first, pushing the flag further into his chest. He’s got to be dead, but he’s the Joker, he’s a fixture of Gotham City, Batman’s archnemesis. Can he really be dead, after all these years, unceremoniously shot with his own trick gun?  
  
Some would say it’s poetic justice, I suppose.  
  
But it’s not what I wanted.  
  
I don’t even know what I wanted. I just know it wasn’t this. Maybe we shouldn’t have stopped Jay from killing him all these years, just so we could sleep better at night. Maybe we should have done it ourselves. Maybe_ I _should have done it._  
  
“Babs? Oh my God!”  
  
Alycia’s arms are around me, and I’m back in the hospital room.  
  
“Hey, Alycia,” I try to smile, but unlike with Dad, I can’t seem to manage it. Instead, a tear forms in the corner of my eye.  
  
I had a seizure while I was at the police station. I don’t really remember what happened, but I know I scared Dad, badly. I finally convinced him to go home, but only because he’s preparing my old room so I can move back in with him at least until after my corrective surgery. I don’t have time for this, Grotesque is still out there—  
  
And I’m crying while Alycia holds me. Frankie’s here, too, sitting in a chair next to my bed. This isn’t supposed to happen to me anymore, I don’t want to be weak and helpless and scared. I’m Barbara Gordon, tough-as-nails Commissioner’s kid. I’m Batgirl, protector of Burnside. I’m not supposed to be…  
  
But maybe...maybe it’s okay. Even the Commissioner himself needs comfort sometimes. And Batman sure as hell does. So maybe it’s okay if I just let Alycia and Frankie hold me, stroke my hair, say soothing words while I cry my fears away.  
“Hey, look at me.” Alycia takes my shoulders. “Everything’s gonna be alright, Babs.”  
  
I wipe my eyes with the heel of my hand. “Yeah...yeah, you’re right...thanks, Alycia.”  
  
Even if the surgery doesn’t work out. Even if this is my last mission as Batgirl. And maybe even if I can’t stop Grotesque, or help Tim, or leave my past with the Joker behind me...Well, those things seem less alright. But the world will keep turning. Someone will stop Grotesque, help Tim, the Joker’s already been stopped. If I want to keep going, I have to keep telling myself...  
  
_It’s okay. It’s okay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! <3 Next update is Saturday!
> 
> As always, feel free to leave a comment, in English, español, or 한국말!


	8. Tim

_I need to kill Batman.  
  
Because it’s funny. It’s the punchline for the big joke. My arms are lead, my lungs are full of liquid laughter, I pull the trigger. The boomerang hits Batman square in the chest, and he falls backwards to the hardwood of our foyer.  
  
I need to kill Boomerang.  
  
The one thing you can count on is human nature.  
  
All I need to do is let go of my grapple, and he’ll fall to his death. It was his own doing. Choices I put in front of him, but which he had to_ make _in order for things to end up here. I gave him a choice, a thousand choices, but deep down, I knew what he would do. I knew his nature, and I manipulated it.  
  
Let go. Drop him into the traffic below, watch him fucking die the death he deserves. Let go. Let go. Let go.  
  
“What did I ever do to you?!”  
  
Coward. Coward. Coward. Revenge for Dad, stabbed through the heart with a boomerang in his own home, targeted because he was Robin’s father._ My _father._ My _fault.  
  
“We both know you don’t have the_ stones!”  
  
_I have to make it right. Everything is wrong, I have to_ force _it to be right. Right. Right.  
  
Dick and Damian are watching. Bruce is watching.  
They’re right, all of them. I can’t do it. I want to. But I’m afraid. How did I let it get this far? No, I did nothing wrong.  
  
Keep telling yourself that.  
  
“You saved him tonight, Tim, but what about _tomorrow _?”  
  
It’s too late to turn back. Or maybe I was always this way, deep down.  
  
I turn and throw the boomerang at Bruce, it hits him in the heart, he falls back to the hardwood of our foyer, where I’ll find him later, his blood pooling and congealing, seeping into the cracks between the floorboards and filling them with rust, and Daddy’s laughing, laughing, laughing—_  
  
I start awake, Daddy’s still laughing. My heart hammers a frantic staccato. The harsh lights above me, the icy metal table under me, the restraints tight against my wrists, the smell of burning blood and my own filth— No, at the same time I’m in bed at the Manor, I’m not tied down. It was a dream...  
  
“Tim? You okay?” Steph is sitting next to me, probably doing her homework, but I hear her put her pen down. Someone touches my hand and I flinch instinctively, but I relax my hand after a second. My head is beating like a drum. My chest is tight with suppressed giggles.  
  
“You’re shaking…” Steph says, giving my hand a squeeze. For a moment, I feel the boomerang in my hand. She swipes a handkerchief across my sweaty forehead. “Here, have some water.”  
  
Of all the memories to be crystal clear, coming up _now_ , why is it the night I tried to kill Digger Harkness? I really hate myself sometimes. The door opens, and Kon comes in and sits with us. I’m still exhausted, so I drift in and out of sleep, but I try not to let myself fall completely.  
  
I’m not sure how much later, but eventually Alfred arrives with a tray of bandages and ointment. It’s not my favorite part of the day, but I know I have to be extra careful about getting an infection again, so I try to comply with minimal complaining. Right now, nothing is real and everyone around me is acting, like they’re in a movie or something. I’m a fish in an aquarium, my ears full of water’s silent static, and they’re on the other side of the glass. At least it’s easier not to whine too much at times like this.  
  
All three of them put on surgical masks to prevent bacteria from infecting any broken skin I might still have, or might have gotten since my rescue. My skin is a bit fragile still. Kon props me up while Alfred unbuttons my shirt and gently tugs it off. I can’t help the occasional yelp when the bandages come off some of the more sensitive areas, but I bite my lip to keep quiet. Suddenly, I see the lights above me, searchlights, hear Daddy crooning while he pours acid on me, my skin is being sandpapered, must be sloughing off in a viscous soup. I don’t notice I’ve screamed until I hear them asking me what’s wrong, all at the same time, frantic.  
  
“S-sorry, I’m fine…”  
  
Alfred eyes me for a moment before continuing. “Alright, then, sir. Let me know if anything hurts you.”  
  
“Mm-hm...”  
  
“I will say, though, your skin is looking much better.”  
  
I haven’t actually looked at my skin in a while, and I’m not sure I want to. Between the burns and the infection, I’m guessing it still looks pretty disgusting. The chemical burns are from a skin bleaching mixture that’s made the skin on my arms and hands at least patchy and blotchy— yellow-white in some areas where the bleaching worked, and red where the bleach just burned my skin. Apparently some parts were black with electrical burns when they first found me. Steph is standing across the room, probably because I look so gross. It makes me want to scratch my skin off.  
  
Alfred puts antibiotic ointment on my burns and sores before rewrapping my torso and arms. He does the same with my legs.  
  
“There we are, Master Timothy.”  
  
I don’t respond, but Alfred puts my shirt back on and buttons it. Kon gently settles me back against the pillows. It’s like someone’s tapping on the glass of the aquarium, but I’m not sure if I care.  
  
“Miss Brown, Mr. Kent, you may remove your masks, now,” Alfred says crisply. I still can’t see too well, but I hear him hang a new IV bag on the pole next to the bed, probably a mixture of hydrating fluids and antibiotics. I can’t keep much down, so IV is a good option.  
  
Kon peels the latex gloves off with a snap. Steph comes back and sits on the bed, too, near my legs. I flinch at someone touching my knee. I’m not sure if it’s Steph or Kon or my imagination.  
  
Steph swallows. “F-feeling any better?” She sounds like she’s trying to smile and can’t manage it.  
  
I should probably lie to her. “Yeah.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“Wanna do some puzzles?” Kon asks.  
  
I’m tired, but I’m more tired of sleeping when I only have nightmares. “Okay.”  
  
Kon lifts the little tray table onto the bed, puts it on my lap. It already has a bunch of print-outs of sudoku puzzles on it. I squint at the sudoku, and I feel the smile stretching across my face again. I try to take deeper breaths, but it doesn’t seem to help.  
  
“What...what does it say?”  
  
Logically, I know the print is huge if it’s one puzzle per page. Kon doesn’t miss a beat, though, just reading the given numbers and their locations out. I think about it for a while before answering. I haven’t been strong enough to write the answers in myself, so Kon’s been writing them for me. To make it easier to fill in, I try to figure out an entire row before telling him.  
  
“Two, seven, nine, one, three, six...no, _five_ , six, eight, four. Maybe.”  
  
Kon chuckles. “I’d put money on it. What’s the next row?”  
  
“Um…” Instinctively, I reach for the pen in Kon’s hand, and he gives it to me. It feels strange but good to be holding a writing implement again, even if I can’t seem to get a solid grip on it like I want. I write all the numbers in, filling the sudoku. But when I look at it again, I can see clearer, and all I’ve written are scribbles. Some of them resemble the numbers they’re supposed to be, others are completely meaningless. I can’t stop the words before they’re out of my mouth. “What the hell.”  
  
“What’s wrong?” Kon asks, concerned.  
  
“What do you mean, ‘what’s wrong’?” I still can’t stop talking. My smile stretches wider, and I hear my voice going high, hysterical, but it belongs to someone else. “I can’t write!” The giggle rises from my stomach like acid reflux, wants to explode out of my mouth, but I manage to choke it off before it becomes a fit. “W-what’s with that?”  
  
“Your hands are injured, remember?” Kon says gently. “That’s probably what it is.”  
  
I look at my hands, or try to. I can’t see again. What the hell. I’ve had enough, enough of this, I’m done—  
  
“Tim, _no_!” Steph gasps.  
  
Kon catches my arm. For the first time, Kon sounds alarmed. “What are you doing?!”  
  
Vaguely, I realize one hand has tried to stab the other with the pen.  
  
I start laughing, then. It’s exactly the kind of thing Daddy would want me to do. I barely notice Steph getting up from the bed. I must disgust her. She’s fought Daddy before, I must remind her of him, with the way I look, the way I laugh. If Kon knew Daddy like we did, he’d leave, too. I hear him trying to calm me down, but I don’t want to calm down.  
  
In fact, what would happen if I just let go? What if I just kept laughing forever? I want to laugh, I want to laugh until I can’t breathe, I want to laugh until I finally suffocate, until I finally die! It’ll all be fun fun _fun_ —  
  
No, that’s not right, that’s _not right._ I _have to_ calm down. I’m hanging onto Kon like he’s a grappling line, he’s talking to me, but I can’t hear the words over the fluff in my ears, can’t see through the dark fuzz closing in on my vision. It’s pathetic, embarrassing, for my friends to see me like this, but I can’t control, can’t control, can’t—  
  
This is so unfair. I spent my whole life doing what Dad wanted, and he just screws me over like this. He makes it so that I need him to even— no, he never did that. _I_ did that. _I_ let it happen. I deserve this.  
  
Make Daddy proud!  
  
I trust you, Tim.  
  
_You shouldn’t have. I got myself here. Everything hurts. I’ll die here._  
  
Brucey will _hate_ you when he finds out what you’ve told me, but don’t worry, Junior. I’ll protect you.  
  
We can fight him together!  
  
Won’t that be swell?  
  
Me and you against the world, my boy!  
  
_Until I disappoint him one time too many._  
  
Then again, maybe Brucey already hates you...If he didn’t, why would he let his real baby boy take Robin? Even after you fought your own brothers to bring him back from the _dead_? Why hasn’t he come to your rescue, like you thought he would?  
  
I’ll tell you _why_ , he’s having too much fun with your replacement! Why, he doesn’t even know you’re lost, Junior! He doesn’t care a smidge for poor, lonely you!  
  
But guess who does!  
  
That’s right, _Daddy_ does!  
  
Daddy won’t ever abandon his creation!  
  
_But I’m here alone now, aren’t I?_  
  
The sharp smell of crayons gives me a foothold, I hear Kon for a moment. “Breathe, Tim.” I obey, following his deep, even breaths in shallow gasps, trying to push the laughter down, down, _away_. I want to cry in relief. Thank God it’s winding down. My chest hurts, it hurts to breathe, I feel light-headed. I might be sick. I gulp.  
  
“It’s alright…I’ve got you.” Kon gives my shoulder a squeeze.  
  
But what’s going on? I know I’m at the Manor, now. But why are there crayons? Am I supposed to color something? Or maybe I’m just supposed to look at them. They’re sitting on the tray table.  
  
“What...what are those for…?”  
  
“They’re for you,” Steph says. She tilts my chin towards her face, swipes her thumb across my cheek, as though wiping a tear. I wish I could see her better.  
  
“What...do you want me to color...?” I’m still confused.  
  
“Nothing,” Steph says. She opens the box of crayons, puts one in my hand. It’s blue. The paper feels nice in my hand. “You can do your puzzles with the crayons instead of the pen. That’s all.”  
  
Oh. It makes sense, I guess. I can’t hurt myself with a crayon. Well, I guess pretty much anything can be used to hurt someone, but it’s definitely a lot less dangerous than a pen. The smell of the crayons is nice, too, grounding. I don’t feel quite as far away.  
  
I’m tired, though, and my head is pulsing, white spots in a frenzied dance across my vision, like a string of firecrackers going off. I can’t think. My head is going to explode. My stomach feels like a blender. I want to rip it out and throw it in the garbage where it belongs, useless sack of shit. “No...more…”  
  
“Easy, bro,” Kon says. “Just relax.”  
  
I laugh a little, wish I didn’t, laugh some more, have to stop myself, can’t let it escalate again or I will die—  
  
I sit forward quickly, Kon superspeeds the bucket in front of me, and I’m vomiting into it. Vaguely, I wonder if your digestive system can turn inside out, just detach at the rectum and squelch out your mouth, esophagus, stomach, intestines. That’s pretty funny.  
  
_No, Junior, it’s fucking not. Stop laughing, you absolute shit._  
  
He shuts up after that, withdraws because I’ve hurt him. Good. Stay the _hell_ away.  
  
Someone gives me water, and I drink a little and lie back down. I’m so damn tired. I want to die. I close my eyes, try to focus on my breathing, but it feels like there’s an anvil on my chest. The only time I’m not in pain is when I’m asleep. The only time I don’t have horrific nightmares is when I’m awake, and even then I’m having flashbacks, this is a waking nightmare. I’m so damn tired. Tears of frustration fill my eyes. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.  
  
“Hey, Ace,” Kon says.  
  
I turn to look at the dog, who’s just nosed his way into the room. He’s too old to jump up on my bed, now, but I dangle my non-IV arm off so I can pet him, feel his short, coarse fur with my stupid, useless hands. He nuzzles into my touch, and for a moment I forget how stupid and useless my hands are. Everything seems a little better when Ace is around.  
  
He used to be the Joker’s dog. He understands what I’m going through. “Don’t you, boy…?” Ace licks my fingers, then nothing. “Where’d he go…?”  
  
“He’s just lying down by your bed, now,” Kon assures me. “Guarding you, you know?”  
  
“He always faces away from you, like he’s watching the door.” Steph chuckles a little. “Though all the squirrels are outside, so if I were him I’d watch the window.”  
  
I close my eyes, let the exhaustion take over, because I don’t think he’s watching the door, or on guard for rodents or birds.  
  
I think, instead, he might be showing me his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! :D  
> I hope the beginning wasn't too confusing, but I pulled some lines from Red Robin (2009) #26, when Tim makes a plan to kill Captain Boomerang and almost carries it out, if anyone was wondering.  
> Next update is probably going to be Wednesday night. :3
> 
> As always, please feel free to comment! <3  
> (I also wanted to add that constructive criticism is welcome as well, especially if it's more about the writing itself than content/character interpretation! I worry about stagnating as a writer sometimes, I'm not the only one am I?? haha ^^;)


	9. Jason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about missing the mid-week update, guys! I have a lot of projects going on for school and it just totally slipped my mind :"") But I'm posting two chapters today to make up for it!  
> Side note though, do you guys actually like the twice a week posting schedule or is it too much? Am I drowning you in content? lol No one has complained nor voiced approval of the current update schedule so idk XD I mean if you're neutral, I'd be curious to know, too! haha
> 
> Anywho, thanks for reading, kudos-ing, and especially commenting! I really appreciate it!! :D <3

Dick and Babs are still arguing with Bruce in the hallway. If I wanna see Tim, I can’t keep my visits a secret from Bruce forever. I figured I should rip the Band-aid off, cauterize the wound, before it becomes an even bigger issue. But then again, is that even possible?  
  
I knew Bruce would want me to go away, try to stop me from seeing Tim, but I didn’t think he’d be this much of a fucking hardass.  
  
“Shithead,” I mutter under my breath. It relieves a little of the pressure in my chest.  
  
“Language, Master Jason.”  
  
I nearly jump out of my skin. “Alfred!” I can’t stop the tears from welling up in my eyes, as stupid as it is. The last time I saw the old man, he’d told me Bruce was proud of me, never regretted taking me in. I don’t even want to imagine what Alfred thinks of me, now that he knows the truth. “I’m sorry,” I blurt, even though I know nothing I say or do will ever hide what an utter shitstorm of a person I am.  
  
“Please, Master Jason, there’s no need to be so upset over it.”  
  
I feel hollowed-out, like Alfred’s just removed the last of my insides with a neat scoop of his fancy French soup ladle. Is he saying he’s known all along? I shouldn’t be upset, then.  
  
“One curse word is hardly enough to make me seriously angry with you, you know that.”  
  
Oh. Then we’re ignoring the elephant in the room? Fine by me. I’m ripping off one Band-aid today, so I’d rather avoid the other one.  
  
Alfred puts a hand on my shoulder, and I stiffen. “I really am glad you’ve come. Timothy will benefit greatly from having his elder brother around.”  
  
“He, um, he said he wanted me to come, right?”  
  
“He did, sir.”  
  
Maybe that’s why Alfred is tolerating me so well. Or maybe it’s just the surprise. I’m still surprised Tim asked for me at all.  
  
“Here, why don’t you join Master Timothy now? He’ll be happy to see you.”  
  
I swallow hard and let Alfred lead me into Tim’s bedroom. It’s next to my old room. I shift the stack of audiobooks I brought along to my other hand, wipe the sweat from my hand on my pants. Dick mentioned that Tim was having trouble seeing straight and moving his hands precisely, so I made sure to get recordings whose voices weren’t too annoying, along with big, chunky headphones that would be easier to handle than earbuds. They’re science books I could never understand, but I know Tim lives for nerdy stuff like that.  
  
When we get there, Alfred announces me, and Tim looks up from his bed with a manic grin. The slits in his cheeks are fully healed now, but the scars still extend his smile too far. It makes my stomach flip, but I move further into the room anyway. He’s sitting up, which is a good sign, and he has a little breakfast-in-bed table on his lap with some papers and crayons spread out on it. They said there was possible brain damage, and I’m scared that it’s bad, considering he’s regressed to crayons. I don’t want to ask, though, in case it upsets him. Dick warned me that he’s sensitive right now.  
  
“Hey,” I say, sitting in the chair by his bedside.  
  
“Hey,” he replies. He sounds fairly lucid, if not exhausted, which is a good sign. Dick also said he fades in and out of knowing where he is and being completely confused. I glance at the papers, which it turns out are actually sudoku puzzles, printed out in huge print. His handwriting has always been a messy scrawl, but now it’s almost illegible. Still, he’s solved the puzzle correctly. On others, he’s just colored in the boxes different colors.  
  
“There’s nerve damage in my hands,” Tim says when he catches me looking at his puzzles. “So I’m color-coding some of them instead of writing.”  
  
“Oh,” I say. So he’s still way smart. “I brought some audiobooks for you. I’m not sure if they’re any good, but they’re science-y.” I set them on his nightstand. “I can bring some more if you have titles you want.”  
  
“Thanks.” He manages a small smile. “You’re good to me, you know.”  
  
“Huh?” I can’t stop myself from making the noise. “Um…”  
  
“Duke told me you stopped in behind D-Daddy’s back.”  
  
Daddy? I guess he means Bruce, but I’ve never heard him call Bruce anything father-related. I don’t correct him, though, in case it upsets him or something. “Oh. Well, I was just wondering how you were doing, that’s all.”  
  
He doesn’t answer for a second, his gaze moving to a spot in the middle of the room, unfocused. His mouth moves slightly, but no sounds come out.  
  
I start getting a little worried. “Tim? Hello? Tim?” Should I just wait for him to answer? Or is he about to pass out or something? I glance behind me. I didn’t hear Alfred walk away, so if I need to call for help it’d probably be fine. “Tim? You okay?”  
  
Finally, he responds. “Huh?” He squints at me for a while. “What...who...are you?”  
  
“Uh...It’s Jay. I came to visit you.”  
  
He smiles, but he still seems confused. “Where’s Dad?”  
  
“Um, he’s a little busy right now, but I’ll tell him you asked for him.” I stand. Maybe this is part of the brain damage? I hope it’s not permanent. “You need anything else?”  
  
“No, thank you.”  
  
“Okay.” I step out, and I realize my hands are shaking. I curl them into fists and stuff them into my pockets. I wonder how many thugs I can punch out from here all the way back to the hotel.  
  
“ _Jason._ ”  
  
Hearing my name out of Bruce’s mouth sends a shiver down my spine, turns my stomach, but I try not to show it. I turn towards him, but it’s hard to look at him straight-on. I know I probably look like a brat with my hands in my pockets refusing to look at him, but right now it’s all I can do not to punch a hole in the wall. “Yeah?”  
  
“Dick and Barbara vouched for you,” Bruce says. He’s only a little taller than me, but he’s using those couple inches to intimidate, like he’s ready to bust my jaw if I so much as twitch. And now I know all too well that he _would_ , if I give him a good enough reason. He continues in his Batman growl. “That’s the only reason I’m letting you anywhere near Tim. But if you hurt him…”  
  
_You mean if I hurt_ you.  
  
I’m surprised at the thought, but I push it away. I’m not sure where it came from. I clear my throat. “If I hurt him, then feel free to punch my lights out for good. Hurting Tim is the last thing I want to do.”  
  
And it’s true. Tim might not remember what I’ve done, so that might be why he’s okay with seeing me. But if he remembers later and wants me to go away, then I’ll leave, no questions asked. After everything he’s been through, I have no right to make it harder.  
  
Batman grunts. “Good.” Then he turns and stalks down the hall, the tension vibrating in every muscle.  
  
“Wait, Bruce,” I call. He turns around too quickly, like he’s expecting me to pull something shitty. “Tim, um, Tim asked for you.”  
  
“He did?”  
  
“Uh, yeah…” I’m not sure if I should mention that Tim called him ‘Dad’ or not. Maybe it’s better if I don’t say anything.  
  
“I’ll be with him in a minute.” He turns and continues down the hall. Somehow, it sounds like a lie.  
  
It’s not until he walks away that I realize what a fucking poser he’s being. The nerve to try to tell me I can’t see my little brother, to say I’m probably gonna hurt him, when _Bruce_ was the one who was gonna give up on him? And _I_ was the one who told him to get his ass in gear? He’s even more fucked up than I thought. Damn hypocrite.  
  
“Jason.”  
  
I startle a little out of habit, but I recognize the voice. “Kate.”  
  
The last time I saw her, she was helping me with a case outside of Gotham. She wanted me to come back and ask Bruce for forgiveness; she’d figured if Bruce forgave her for Clayface then he’d forgive me for Penguin, too. But it’s not that simple. “How’ve you been lately?”  
  
“Stressed,” she says. “But fine.” She looks me up and down, her thumbs tucked in the pockets of her jeans. “Have you been taking care of yourself?”  
  
I shrug. “If picking fights with homicidal maniacs is self-care.”  
  
She snorts. “You and me, both, kid.” I wish she wouldn’t call me that, but I don’t say anything. She casts an unreadable glance at Tim’s room. “Alfred said you brought him books. That’s sweet of you.”  
  
I push my hands deeper into my pockets. “Sure. Look, Kate, I’m not really in the mood for small talk, so if you don’t mind?”  
  
“Not at all, go ahead.”  
  
“Thanks.” I turn and walk away. Kate’s alright, even if her cousin’s an utter tool.  
  
It’s cool outside, and the sun’s already setting. The days are getting shorter, which means the nights are getting longer— I guess longer “workdays” are both good and bad. The leaves have all fallen, but we haven’t gotten any snow yet to soften the skeletons of the trees. Eventually, the ivy twisting up the Manor walls and around the prongs of the main gate’ll be leafless, too, and that’s when the creep factor really sets in. The Manor would look dead and deserted if not for the soft yellow glow in some of the windows. Then again, I guess maybe it could still look haunted; after all, it’s got enough damn ghosts.  
  
I’m getting my motorcycle started when Duke walks up to me, sort of hesitantly. “Hey, Jay, you goin’ downtown?”  
  
“Yeah. Need a ride or something?”  
  
“If you’re not busy.”  
  
I study him through the visor of my motorcycle helmet. I know that face he’s making— he looks almost hopeful, but he’s trying to hide it so I don’t feel pressured to say yes, and maybe because he’s embarrassed to be that hopeful in the first place. Reminds me of the way I used to look at Dick. Duke’s still a kid, and I guess I should try to act like a big brother to him even if Bruce and I never patch things up. “Nah, not really. Hop on.”  
  
He smiles a little and gets on behind me. I wasn’t planning on coming back to the Manor today, either, but I guess if Duke needs a ride back, too, I’ve got time. It’s not like I have a job to get to in the morning or anything.  
  
“So, where you gotta get to?” I ask.  
  
Duke shrugs. “Honestly, just gotta get out of the house. I know it’s huge and everything, but still...”  
  
“Yeah,” I say. I get that. “Wanna get some food or something?”  
  
“Sounds good.”  
  
We used to go to Batburger a lot before, but I don’t really feel like thinking about Bruce right now, so I pull us up to a trashy Chinese place near my hotel. We’re in the middle of the Narrows, but I don’t know if Duke’s ever been to China Chicken King before.  
  
“So you been here before?”  
  
“Um, _yes_?” Duke says. “Their kung pao chicken is, like, _heaven_.”  
  
“For real?”  
  
We go in and order a few dishes. We eat in silence, which is nice. Still, I want to ask how he’s doing. Apparently Tim is still laughing a fair amount, and especially for someone like Duke who’s been hurt bad by the Joker but hasn’t had a chance to return the favor, I can see how that would be tough. So I do wanna ask how he is. But I’m sure that’s all anyone’s been asking Duke about lately, so I’ll spare him.  
  
Instead, he ends up chilling with me in my hotel room, watching trashy TV. As we’re screaming at the dumbass reality stars, it occurs to me that there are two beds, so I can invite him to stay the night just to get a break, but I don’t wanna be too forward. Still, it gets to be late in the evening and he’s still hanging around.  
  
“Hey, I’m gonna head out,” I say, sticking the domino on my face. I’d invite him to come with, but I know Signal’s mostly a daytime gig at the moment, and can’t stretch yourself too thin. “But you can go or stick around if you want, whatever.”  
  
“Nah, I don’t wanna impose,” Duke says, standing from the other bed. “I have to help Alfred with chores and stuff, anyway. Thanks for letting me hang.”  
  
I clear my throat. “Yeah, sure. Was fun.” I open the window and hop out onto the fire escape.  
  
He offers me a small smile. “See ya, Jay.”  
  
“Yeah, see ya.” I close the window.


	10. Damian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unnecessary context: This chapter takes place around Batman (2016) #53-54 somewhere.

When I arrive home from school, Pennyworth hands me a plate of sliced apples, arranged neatly in a flower shape. “How was school, Master Damian?”  
  
“Fine,” I say, even though it was boring. Father has recently started me at a private school, one that he attended in his youth; I believe it is merely a distraction meant to occupy me until I am able to resume being Robin, but everyone is saying it’s so that I may practice social interaction. As far as I am concerned, though, I socialize just fine with everyone who matters. I glance around the living area, but my siblings are nowhere to be seen. “Where is Thomas?”  
  
“He is upstairs, sir.”  
  
Damn it. He always gets home before me, since his high school is closer to the Manor than my middle school. I put the apples on the table and run up the stairs two at a time. As I swore to myself, I have been spending more time with Drake so that Thomas will not need to, but Thomas does not seem to have noticed my efforts, since he continues to babysit Drake after school before I get home. I must show my irritation to communicate that his actions are unnecessary.  
  
I leap into Drake’s room. “Thomas! Ow!” Something hit my head— Drake’s headphones land on the floor. He is sitting in bed, fixing me with a ghoulish grin. A chill tingles up my spine. I hate how the sight of him still surprises me after all this time. Apparently to the point that I am not even particularly angry that he threw his headphones at me. That is a problem.  
  
Thomas is sitting at Drake’s desk, looking perplexed. “Oh, uh, hey, Damian. Something wrong?”  
  
I pick up the headphones and shoot Drake a sour look, but he doesn’t seem to notice me anymore, smiling creepily into his lap. Perhaps it was an involuntary motion on his part, in which case there is no reason for me to be angry, I suppose. “No. I was just...Well, what are you doing in here?”  
  
“Oh. Steph has to stay a few extra minutes at lab, so she asked me to cover for her until she gets here.” Thomas glances at his watch. “Probably like fifteen minutes or so.”  
  
“Oh. I see.” I feel foolish, now, for some reason. Stupid Brown. Why was I not informed of her schedule? I could have arranged for Pennyworth to pick me up from school early on some pretense, or summoned Father’s helicopter in order to arrive home earlier. Of course she would conspire to keep me out of the loop.  
  
“Gimme my headphones back,” Drake whines. He isn’t quite looking at me, his wide smile directed at a random spot between us.  
  
I sniff. “Why? So you can throw them again?”  
  
His face twists in anger. His voice goes shrill. “Give them back!”  
  
“Just give them back to him, Damian,” Thomas says, tiredly.  
  
“Tt. Fine.” I toss them lightly into his lap, and he screams in rage. He accidentally hits the IV pole next to his bed, but Thomas jumps and catches it before it can fall far enough to dislodge the needle in Drake’s arm.  
  
“Whoa, whoa, chill, Tim! You got your headphones back, right?”  
  
Drake doesn’t answer, looking in his lap again. He simply twists his hands around in the blanket, bites his lip, makes a strange sound in his throat. Thomas puts the headphones back on his head for him.  
  
I huff. His tantrums are only getting worse. “You’re the one who threw them, you idiot. Be reasonable.”  
  
“Damian!” Thomas snaps, even though I was trying to help him. “Leave it alone, okay?”  
  
I cross my arms and glare at Drake. Now that he is able to talk more, he has seen fit to add sudden mood swings to his arsenal of annoyances. Pennyworth says I must tolerate them with patience, as this whole ordeal is apparently much more upsetting for him than it is for us, if that is possible.  
  
“Fine,” I say. Though I had intended to displace Thomas, if he wishes me to leave, then I suppose I should. I glance at the clock; Brown should arrive within the next ten minutes or so, or else. “I will go print some puzzles, then.”  
  
“Thanks,” Thomas says as I turn and leave the room, heading for Father’s office.  
  
We still do not understand exactly what the Joker has done to Drake’s mind, but it seems to have wildly altered his personality. I admit I may even have learned to appreciate his former manner, considering how annoying he is now. Richard says Drake may become closer to his former personality as time passes, but considering that his mood swings have only been getting worse over the past week, I try not to hope.  
  
I sit at Father’s desk and search the Internet for sudoku puzzles to enlarge and print out, as has become my chore. Apparently, this is beyond the scope of Pennyworth’s technological expertise, which is ridiculous, since he can use the Bat-computer without issue, but apparently has problems with simple photo-editing software. I suspect the adults are just trying to keep me busy by pretending that I am the only one suited to this stupid task.  
  
“Hey, Dami.” I recognize the annoying chirp immediately.  
  
“My name has a third syllable, Brown,” I say coolly. “Then again, if such a word is too long for your miniscule brain to comprehend or for your bumbling tongue to pronounce, I _suppose_ you may call me ‘Dami.’” Normally, it is a nickname reserved only for Richard or Jon, but Brown can be stubborn. Sometimes it is best to merely acquiesce.  
  
“Ooookay,” she says, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe.  
  
“Do not smudge the wood polish.”  
  
“Oh my god,” she mumbles, rolling her eyes, but she does stop leaning on the doorframe. Pennyworth worked very hard on it, so she ought to respect that. “Look, I just came to see if you finished printing those sudokus yet.”  
  
“I will finish when I finish. Patience is a virtue, Brown.”  
  
“Uh-huh. Just hurry up. Tim’s in a mood right now and puzzles will help.”  
  
“Oh dear,” I say mockingly. Stupid Drake for his tantrums, and stupid Thomas for not appreciating my help. “Is he threatening to break his crayons, now?”  
  
Brown huffs at that. She pauses for a moment before saying, “Bet I can do your job faster than you.”  
  
I straighten my spine. “You cannot.”  
  
“I’m taking a class in programming,” she claims, petulant as ever.  
  
“And I am a prodigious hacker,” I reply. “Your _skills_ cannot possibly compare.” I hit ‘Print,’ sending the next batch of twenty sudokus to Father’s printer. Ever impatient, she walks up to the printer and snatches each page as it ejects. I roll my eyes.  
  
“Hey, help me color-code them for him?”  
  
“That is positively _juvenile_. I will not.” I know she only wants to take a picture of me with crayons and send it to everyone we know. Bitch.  
  
“Come on, Damian. You could stand to help out a little more around here. Or are you admitting that I’m more useful than you?”  
  
“Your attempts to goad me really are pathetic, Brown.” Besides, they merely reveal her lack of observational skills, since she hasn’t noticed my efforts to babysit Drake more. Why is it that no one can believe I would do something helpful around the house?  
  
“Bruce would tell you to help.”  
  
I frown at that. I suppose if it would alleviate some of Father’s concern, I could engage in something so ridiculously simple as coloring.  
  
“Very well, Brown,” I say, dismounting from Father’s office chair. “But if you attempt to photograph me, I will promptly _annihilate_ your device.”  
  
“Uh...okay? I wasn’t gonna take a picture of you, anyway.”  
  
I do not believe her lies for a second, but nevertheless I know she cares too much for her device to endanger it over a picture of me with crayons, so I follow her to the dining room. She has the box of Drake’s crayons, which are broken and worn down. I scoff. Of course such a slob would neglect the care of his belongings.  
  
“Okay, ones are cerulean, twos are forest green…” Brown pulls out a key she has made for herself and puts it on the table between us. “And remember, only color the boxes that already have the numbers. Don’t solve it.”  
  
I roll my eyes. I could do these sudokus with my eyes closed, but I am not going to make my work meaningless by solving the puzzles that are supposed to distract Drake. “I _know_ , Brown. Do you take me for an idiot?”  
  
“What? No! Ugh…” Brown rolls her eyes in return. “You take everything so personal.”  
  
I frown. “Tt. It’s ‘ _personally_.’”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You said ‘ _personal_.’ But it should be an adverb— ’ _personally_.’” I scoff. “And you call yourself a student of higher learning.”  
  
She stares at me for a moment, but I only return to the color-coding. After a moment, I see her do the same. We color in silence for a few minutes before she speaks again.  
  
“You could be nicer to him. He never did anything to you.”  
  
“Tt.” As though Brown could understand the complexity of what Drake has done to me by simply _existing_. Not to mention the _additional_ maltreatments.  
  
“And even if he _did_ , he’s still your brother, and he treats you like one.” Brown fixes me with a glare that gives me the slight urge to fidget, and I don’t know why.  
  
Drake, when I came to him pleading, _begging_ for help in escaping Ra’s al Ghul, he responded by attempting to banish me from my ancestral home, and said many times that Father was utterly disinterested in me, which was a bald-faced lie. Even after I’d been accepted by Richard, Drake made a secret contingency plan against me, and still has it as far as I know. That’s hardly the treatment one affords a brother. I don’t owe him anything but mistrust and hatred.  
  
Brown continues. “And just about the worst thing that could happen to anyone just happened to him. You could show a little compassion instead of just talking shit all day.”  
  
I adjust my seat. “You— you cannot see his flaws clearly because of your raging carnal desire for him.”  
  
Brown’s face goes red. “ _Um_ , you wanna say that again, _pal_?”  
  
“I don’t need to,” I smirk, even though there’s an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach. “You heard me the first time.”  
  
“Oh. My. God.” Brown goes back to her coloring, more aggressively than before, and I return to mine, coolly as ever. Still, something is no longer sitting right in my abdomen. Perhaps I ate something wrong. Yes, that must be it. Pennyworth’s salad did look suspiciously limp this afternoon, though I would never say so unless it wasn’t true. That is all this feeling is.  
  
_That is all._  
  
~~~  
  
I sit at the workbench in the Cave, fiddling with some new smoke grenade ideas— the dispersal mechanism could be more efficient, as well as the capsule itself. I dislike that Father will _still_ not allow me to help him in the field, but perhaps he can make use of my designs on his nights alone. While it is true that Richard has been accompanying Father some nights out of the week ever since Selina abandoned us, that is not the same as having a consistent partner.  
  
And it is definitely not the same as having a _Robin_. Richard has always said that Batman needs Robin, and it is a sentiment everyone in the family seems to share. The fact that Father does not seem to be acknowledging this is odd, perhaps even unsettling. Pennyworth says Father merely fears for my safety and not to take offense, but if he fears then it means he believes I am as vulnerable and weak as Drake.  
  
It’s an utterly preposterous concept, is it not? Nothing like what happened to Drake _could_ happen to me. While it’s true that we don’t know the details of his capture, it can be reasonably deduced that Drake was merely being his usual foolish self when he was apprehended.  
  
I glance at Father. He is sitting at the Bat Computer, staring intently at a series of charts and graphs detailing gang activity downtown. He has been working on them for hours, though I’ve never seen him make or study such figures in the past. I have already asked him about the anomaly, but he has ignored and dismissed my queries. I huff quietly to myself. Father is underestimating me, and without a chance to further prove myself, I do not know how I will convince him otherwise.  
  
“Hey, Dami!”  
  
I look up. “Richard.” He is dressed except for his mask.  
  
He leans over my work. “Whatcha workin’ on?”  
  
“Improved smoke grenades. You would not understand.”  
  
He messes up my hair with his hand. “Smarty pants. Okay, I won’t bother you.”  
  
He is not _bothering_ me, per se, but I allow him to leave and talk to Father. I pretend to be focused on my work, but I watch them, listen carefully to every word.  
  
Richard stops behind the chair. “Batman.”  
  
Father doesn’t look away from the charts. “Nightwing.”  
  
Richard waits a moment for more, but naturally, Father says nothing. Richard sighs. “How long have you been down here, Bruce?”  
  
Father ignores the question. “There’s going to be a deal tonight, a big drug exchange downtown.”  
  
“Okay,” Richard nods. “We calling Jay? This stuff is usually _right up his alley._ ”  
  
I roll _my_ eyes at the pun and I’m not even in the conversation. While it’s true that Todd came of age and later took up residence on Crime Alley, the wordplay is unnecessary.  
  
“No. This is one of Red Robin’s cases.”  
  
That catches my attention. Drake is not allowed anywhere near casework at the moment, as far as I know. Has Father been allowing Drake to work while excluding me?  
  
Richard seems concerned. “You hacked Tim’s computer?”  
  
“He asked Barbara to check his files for anything urgent. She sent me this.” Father flips the cowl on over his head.  
  
Richard crosses his arms petulantly. “Okay, but the last time he worked cases was two months ago, _right_?”  
  
“Right.”  
  
That is a relief.  
  
“Then are you sure this info’s still good?” Richard is rightfully skeptical.  
  
“It is. I’ve already checked.” Father pauses. “Red Robin is good at what he does.”  
  
I huff quietly, but I make sure they don’t hear. They have been _sensitive_ about Drake as of late. I admit even _I_ have been a bit more sensitive than usual.  
  
“I know,” Richard says. “But _Bruce_. When was the last time you took half an hour to sit with him? He needs his dad.”  
  
Ugh. Father is _not_ Drake’s father. Drake’s father was a mediocre archaeologist and an incompetant businessman murdered by the pathetic excuse for an assassin Captain Boomerang. Not impressive at all, just like his son. I wish everyone would stop trying to remind me that we are legally related.  
  
“I’m helping him by working his cases,” Father replies. “That’s what he needs.”  
  
Father starts towards the Batmobile, but Richard steps in front of him. “No, it’s not, and you know it, Bruce. I’ll call Jay and the two of us will take care of the drugrunners, alright? Stay here and take care of Tim.”  
  
Father ignores him, and continues walking to the Batmobile.  
  
“ _Bruce!_ ”  
  
“He doesn’t want me near him, Dick.” He sounds so matter-of-fact, yet at the same time, I can hear that he’s bothered by it. Of course he would be. After everything he’s done for Drake, the ungrateful imbecile can’t stand the sight of his benefactor. As far as I know, Father hasn’t attempted to speak with Drake since the incident when seeing Father sent Drake into a fit, and Drake claims not to remember it. Father continues his explanation. “Tim asks for his father, but he’s confused. He’s talking about Jack Drake, not me. He sees me and it just makes him worse. My current hypothesis is that the Joker may have brainwashed him so that seeing me induces a fear response.” Father squeezes the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.  
  
I wish I could comfort Father. None of this is his fault. It is the Joker and his demented schemes, and Drake being the fool who fell into them, allowing himself to be held captive for so long. Richard, however, is not adequately sympathetic.  
  
“How could he even do that, Bruce? Tim’s known you for _years_ , he sees you as his dad, and you think three weeks with the Joker could convince him you’re _not_? And on top of that, that you’re a _danger_ to him?”  
  
“We don’t know _what the hell_ that psycho _did_ to him, Dick,” Father snaps. “And we might never find out. So leave it alone. Either come with me, or get out of the way.”  
  
Richard presses his lips together, but he steps aside to allow Father to pass. Father jumps into the Batmobile, Richard follows, and the two of them ride off together into the night. I wish I was allowed to go with them, but I have orders I cannot disobey. I did consider it, but Thomas convinced me out of it— if even a small “hiccup” were to occur due to my disobedience, I would hurt Father. Perhaps he would hate me forever. So I cannot disobey.  
  
Bedtime, on the other hand, is fair game. A few hours after Father and Richard have left, Pennyworth attempts to convince me to retire, but I refuse. I will finish my projects, and then go to bed, and there is nothing Pennyworth can do about it.  
  
The Bat Computer beeps, signaling the Batmobile’s approach. Father, on the other hand, might have something to say about staying up too late. Perhaps I can hide until he goes upstairs, and then finish my gadgets to surprise him with tomorrow. It will also afford me an opportunity to practice my stealth; there is no greater challenge than eluding Father’s senses.  
  
I hide behind some equipment as the vehicle pulls into its spot. As soon as the hatch opens, I hear Richard’s voice. He’s upset for some reason.  
  
“—do that?! Are you even listening to me?”  
  
Father leaps from the car. There is blood all over his suit, but luckily from his posture and gait, he seems unharmed. When Richard jumps out after him, there is also a smudge of red across his face. Father stalks to the Computer, ignoring Richard, but Richard grabs his shoulder and turns him around by force.  
  
“What the _hell_ , Bruce?! You’ve always said deadly force is wrong but you’ll turn around and do _that_?! Are you out of your _damn_ mind?!”  
  
I feel my fists curl. Richard shouldn’t speak to Father that way.  
  
“We needed a confession, Nightwing,” Father growls. He steps towards Richard, an intimidation. “He _killed_ four women.”  
  
“So, what? He deserved it? Is that what you’re saying?” Richard yells. “Because that sounds an awful lot like Ja—”  
  
“ _Shut up!_ ” The sound of Father’s fist connecting with Richard’s face is a wet thump. My heart leaps into my throat and I forget how to breathe. Richard’s head snaps back and he falls to the stone floor. The Cave is eerily silent; I am sure they can hear my pulse pounding, blood roaring in my ears like a scream.  
  
Richard sits up and wipes his bloody nose, looks at Father, but says nothing. Father’s fist left a bloody print on Richard’s face, someone else’s blood. I cannot read his expression.  
  
Father hesitantly steps towards him. “Dick...I—”  
  
“Save it.” Richard stands and turns away. “I’m gonna hit the showers. Don’t stay up too late.” He starts to leave, and without thinking, I run to follow him.  
  
Father is surprised to see me, but I’m not happy as I thought I’d be to know I avoided his notice. “Damian…?”  
  
“What the—?” Richard is surprised, too. “Hey, how long—? Never mind. Aren’t you— aren’t you supposed to be in bed or something?”  
  
I nod, but I can’t seem to speak. Richard says something about going to bed and guides me upstairs. It is not until we leave the Cave that I find my voice again.  
  
“Father hit you.”  
  
I swallow; my tongue feels huge and dry. Mother— no, _Talia_ — she would have said that Richard deserved to be struck if he wasn’t alert enough to dodge or block it. But I thought Father was different.  
  
“Oh, hey, you saw that?” Richard sighs. “Look, don’t worry about it, okay? We fight sometimes, but it’s nothing to worry about. We always make up.” A fresh dribble of blood starts running from his nose, but he just wipes it on his dark shirt sleeve. “Not a big deal, ‘kay?”  
  
“Okay…” It had looked like a hard punch. I can already see Richard’s face swelling. He was talking back to Father, so perhaps it was merely discipline. Yes, that’s probably it. But does a father still discipline his adult children this way? I have never seen Ra’s strike Talia in that way, but then again, Talia was never one to disobey him to his face, nor disappoint him, so perhaps the behavior is correct when even adult children fail. Still, when I first arrived in America I did nothing but disrespect Father, and he never struck _me_. Is it because I am still young? Or is it because nothing good was expected of me back then?  
  
Richard sends me off to bed with one of his charismatic smiles, so I go upstairs and wash up, but my hands are still sweaty even after I wash them, and my heart is still beating too fast. I take a few deep breaths. A true warrior wouldn’t be so afraid, would control his fear. Besides, the answer is simple. If I want to avoid Father’s discipline, I will simply obey.  
  
As I lay in bed, however, a new thought occurs to me— if it was merely discipline, why did Father look sorry after he did it? He almost sounded like he was about to apologize. And if he was, that would mean he felt he’d erred. So then Richard was right about whatever they were arguing about, perhaps. Richard said something about deadly force. But Father doesn’t kill, would never kill. But I know there are many ways to hurt someone without killing them. Still, Father would not hurt anyone innocent, and has even cautioned me against hurting the guilty unnecessarily in the past. Perhaps Father simply made a small mistake and was ashamed of it, and that is why he struck Richard. Then again, Father doesn’t often make mistakes, and if he did, Richard isn’t one to harp on it. Perhaps they were fighting about something else in the car before they arrived, something I didn’t have a chance to hear.  
  
I suppose I could listen to the footage from Father’s cowl to find out. But then he would find out that I saw it, and we would have to have another talk about cyber privacy. The cowl’s video record is not for us to spy on Batman; it is for potentially recording evidence or for studying situations and maneuvers. We are not permitted to watch it for personal reasons, because it would be unbecoming. So I cannot resort to that.  
  
Perhaps it would be best just to ignore it.  
  
Titus jumps onto the bed with me, followed by Jerry the Bat-turkey. Titus rests his head on my shoulder, getting slobber on my pajamas, but I don’t mind. Jerry sits in the pillow nest I’ve made for him next to my head and begins preening. I feel better with my animals around me. Though Pennyworth the Cat has yet to join us, I am sure I will awake with his anus pressed firmly to my skull. Yes, a night spent with my animal companions is sure to help me forget what I’ve seen.  
  
But my nightmares are full of monsters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this clarified Damian's behavior a bit, a couple of you mentioned on the last Damian chapter that Damian was being really insensitive, which is a fair assessment, but he's just trying to run from his feelings like a true Wayne :"")
> 
> Anyway, thanks again for reading! :D As always, feel free to leave a comment! <3


	11. Tim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya folks! 
> 
> I've decided to return to a weekly posting schedule, at least until finals are over; I've been slacking on pretty much everything these days (rip my gpa lol) so it'll give me a little wiggle room :")
> 
> Anyways, please enjoy~! <3

“Just _get out_!” I throw my crayons at Steph. I know I shouldn’t. I know I’m being ridiculous, childish, flat-out mean, she doesn’t have to put herself out like this, she’s sacrificing her time and her emotional bandwidth, she’s trying to help me— but somehow that only makes me angrier.  
  
“Fine! Sleep by yourself, jerk!” She slams the door.  
  
I sob, pulling my knees to my chest, bashing my forehead against them. My chest feels like it’s caving in, someone’s digging out my insides with a dirty, twisted spade. I’m so stupid, stupid, _stupid_. I want to go home, but I’m stuck at the Manor. With _him_.  
  
He’s not here right now, I tell myself. Batman is busy at night...doing what again? Protecting the city. Obviously. Why did that take me so _fucking_ long? I can’t even think anymore, I feel awful all the time. I want to die. A pathetic whine escapes my throat, is about to turn into laughter.  
  
_Okay, okay, calm down, Tim. You’re being irrational. Calm. Down._ I try the breathing exercises Alfred taught me, and I feel a little better, but then I remember how I treated Steph a minute ago. I deserve to be promptly dumped.  
  
I’m not supposed to walk around, yet, but I have to…ow. Maybe I stood up too fast, something white in the corner of my eye, panic like a tidal wave, blood in my mouth, but it _can’t be—_  
  
...  
  
What...? What was I doing? I look around my old room, as though I can find the answer somewhere. There are crayon halves on the floor, and my sudoku sheets are ripped to shreds. Did I do that? I must have, because I can’t think of anyone else who would. Did I throw another one of those stupid, stupid tantrums? The lights are off. Was I sleeping? I’m sitting on the floor; did I fall? I don’t remember...my head hurts too much to think. I lie down on the floor, close my eyes. I can’t muster the energy to climb up onto the bed. Alfred won’t be happy about this…  
  
Someone is standing over me. My vision is blurring. “Steph…?”  
  
“No.” I know I recognize the voice, but I can’t place it. “Why here?”  
  
It’s a good question. Why _am_ I here? Why am I _anywhere_? Why is anyone? “I...don’t know…”  
  
The person lifts me and puts me on a bed. Why was I on the floor? Did I screw up again? I must have, if I was on the floor. Batman won’t be happy about this. He might finally fire me. I don’t like that thought.  
  
“Hurt?”  
  
It clicks, suddenly. “Cass.” My sister.  
  
She sits on the edge of the bed, holds my hand. “Can not come fast. Sorry.”  
  
“It’s okay,” I say. “You’re busy in...Bludhaven?”  
  
“Metropolis.”  
  
Oh, that’s right. Batman put her on something in Metropolis for the past three weeks, after the Knights disbanded. Or four weeks? Five? I’m not sure. I must have hit my head. I can’t remember. It’s like trying to look through a fog, a fog that’s seeped into my skull.  
  
Cass places a hand gently over my eyes. “Sleep.”  
  
_So Brucey replaced you with his real son, did he?_  
  
Pain shoots up from my wrists into my head like another electric current, explodes like a firework, but it does nothing to clear the muck in my mind. I can’t think straight. Where am I? Who’s talking to me? Why does everything hurt so much?  
  
He never _properly_ took you in, hm?  
  
‘Properly’ is an interesting way to think about it. Is there a ‘proper’ way for Batman to inaugurate another teenage sidekick? I knew from the start I’d never be his son the way Jason had, the way Dick had. That wasn’t what I’d wanted, anyway.  
  
Right? Jack Drake was my father. It would be ungrateful and cruel to wish for another, especially since he’s dead now. I was never a good son to him, lying all the time and ignoring what he wanted. I wish I could take it back.  
  
He treats you like an _employee_ , Junior! Like a _goon_!  
  
How does he _know_? I spent the first year or two constantly worried about being fired. And when it actually happened, he didn’t hesitate to replace me with Steph. Then Dick fired me, too, and replaced me with an unstable former assassin who’d tried to kill me on multiple occasions. Dick did it on the grounds that I was crazy. But I’m not crazy.  
  
Right?  
  
Oh, my poor Junior! It makes me so very _sad_ that anyone would treat my boy like this!  
  
It’s more than anyone’s ever said about Damian’s behavior, isn’t it? No one lifts a finger at the constant insults, the challenges, the physical fights he’s always trying to start. Maybe because deep down, we all know Damian’s right. After all, I’m not his _blood_. I’m a freeloader. An understudy, a placeholder, a pretender. I can feel someone stroking my face, a warm hand wiping the tears away.  
  
Daddy will help you feel better! I’ll treat you like a true _son_!  
  
I’m not sure I know what that means. But it sounds nice.  
  
I barely register the electricity.  
  
~~~  
  
The door opens. Steph comes into my room with a tray of breakfast— porridge and a little applesauce, and a whole bunch of medications. She looks like she’s been crying. “What’s wrong?” I ask, sitting up more. I hate seeing her upset.  
  
She tries to smile at me, but it’s strained. “Nothing, Tim. Just try to eat.”  
  
I try to frown, but I might be smiling again. I put a hand to my mouth. “Shit.”  
  
“I’ve never heard you curse so much,” Steph says. She sounds so tired. I can see the beginnings of dark circles under her puffy eyes.  
  
“I’m sorry,” I reply. I can feel a headache beginning to sprout in my sinuses. “I just...I thought I was frowning. But I wasn’t. I’m sorry.”  
  
“It’s okay,” Steph sighs, tries again for a smile. It works a little better this time, but something’s still wrong. I must have done something I don’t remember. She lifts the porridge towards me, but a sudden bout of vertigo makes me nauseous.  
  
“N-no, thanks…” I manage, leaning back to keep my head from moving too much. Something in my abdomen starts hurting, a sharp prick every few seconds, in time with my heart beat. “Maybe...maybe later?”  
  
Steph puts the bowl on my nightstand, covers it with the plate Alfred provided in case of this exact situation. She puts a hand on my leg, strokes her thumb back and forth. I wait for the nausea to pass before I speak.  
  
“Did I...did I do something?” I ask. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will the headache away. I still can’t remember. “Did I hurt you?”  
  
“Tim, _no_.” Steph says firmly.  
  
“But...but I remember you were here yesterday...and now you’re upset…”  
  
“Tim, you’re still _sick_.” Steph squeezes my thigh. “I’ve just been really tired lately, that’s all. We had a little tiff last night, if you have to know, but it wasn’t a big deal. I totally overreacted. I’m worried about you, and I guess it just got to me.”  
  
Oh, no. No, no, no, so I _did_ get mad at her, for no reason at all. I can feel the tears building, the pressure in my sinuses growing. “I’m so sorry, Steph, I-I don’t know why I’m like this—”  
  
“ _Tim_. Your brain is still recovering from what happened to you. A few mood swings are normal. I shouldn’t have gotten upset. _I’m_ sorry.” She takes my hand, now, gives it a squeeze. “You just focus on _you_. That’s the best thing you can do for me. Okay?”  
  
I don’t want to focus on me. I’d like to focus on almost anything but me. I close my eyes again, exhausted. If I go back to sleep, I wonder if I’ll have more nightmares.  
  
“Another headache?” Steph brushes her hand across my cheeks, wiping tears that apparently escaped. “Do you want some medicine?”  
  
“No…” I just want to disappear, before Daddy comes back.  
  
_No._ I catch myself. He’s not coming. I’m not there anymore. _He’s not coming. He’s dead. Dad is dead. Something hot traces down my face.  
  
He’s not coming home._  
  
~~  
  
They’re talking quietly, probably about me. I don’t care enough to listen. I know that Steph has to go; she has class tomorrow. But it looks like Dick is going to fill in. Doesn’t he have to go to work or something? I’d rather have Steph around, or Alfred, or even Duke.  
  
“Hey, Timmy,” Dick says as he sits by my bed. He’s brought a tray of food, which he balances on his lap. He touches my leg. “How ya feeling?”  
  
_How do you_ think? He always asks dumb questions. I fidget a little, and I can’t keep the annoyance out of my voice when I speak. “Fine.”  
  
His brow furrows. God, I _hate_ how he’s looking at me right now. Why am I so angry with him? He didn’t do anything. He’s only trying to help. Why am I repeating the same mistake I already made with Steph? I _know_ I’m being stupid and unreasonable. So why can’t I just shut the _hell up_?  
  
“Alfred made porridge.” Dick raises a spoonful cheerfully, but I’m just annoyed again. _Obviously_ it’s porridge. Porridge is all my stomach can handle, and sometimes not even. Still, I try to be obedient while Dick spoons the porridge into my mouth. I don’t know why, but it’s like trying to swallow paste. I think I might choke if this keeps going, but the look that’ll come over Dick’s face if I say I’m not hungry isn’t worth it. I’d rather just choke.  
  
Dick seems to think that filling my ears with anything is going to help me. Sometimes it does, by letting me focus on something else, but other times I just wish he would shut up. Sometimes it’s a relief that he doesn’t ask me to contribute or even show I’m listening, and other times it’s a pain because I can’t show how disinterested I am without saying anything outright. Tonight, he chatters on and on about his latest one-night-stand, who he’s apparently gone on three dates with now. I forgot her name, but for some reason I just don’t care enough to ask. Apparently she’s very sexy, and makes wonderful hot dogs, which is honestly not very impressive. Even Damian knows how to microwave a hot dog and put it on a bun, and his domestic skills are abysmal. Why is Dick telling me this?  
  
Suddenly, my head throbs, white sparkles scatter in my vision. The room spins, and my stomach cramps painfully. Uh-oh. Dick shoves the bucket in front of me just as I start vomiting. I haven’t eaten a lot, so after the first couple heaves it’s mostly acid and bile. I feel like an old dumpster.  
  
“It’s alright, Tim…I’ve gotcha.” Dick murmurs, like I’m a kid who needs comforting. He’s rubbing circles on my back, and it’s irritating my skin. His hand catches a bit on my vertebrae. “Oh, man...you’ve lost so much weight, Buddy…”  
  
_I’m aware_. Steph has already commented that she can see all of my ribs, now. I don’t remember eating anything during my three weeks with Daddy. So I’m definitely aware, thanks Dick.  
  
I lean back against the pillows, breathing hard. Luckily, I’m pretty used to this by now, so it doesn’t make me anxious enough to trigger any serious laughing. Dick sets the bucket down and hands me some water. I take it with both hands and sip it carefully. My stomach churns, but most of the vertigo’s already passed. All that’s left is a nagging headache. I’m so tired. I didn’t even want the dumb porridge.  
  
“Why are you still here?”  
  
Dick frowns. Oh God, did I say that out loud? Was it me? Was it Junior?  
  
“I’m here to take care of you.”  
  
I feel my mouth stretching into a grin. I probably look horrific. My voice is weak, but it has an edge like a rusty knife. “With your track record?”  
  
_Oh my god, shut up, you ungrateful ass! Shut up!_  
  
Dick’s brow furrows. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find you sooner, Tim…” He takes my hand, strokes it with his thumb, but I pull it away, petulantly, like a bratty kid. “Really, you can’t know how much I regret that…”  
  
Of course he thinks this is about not rescuing me from Daddy soon enough. Of course he thinks that, because after everything we’d been through, I’d just wanted some peace, so I never told him. It’s funny how I dig so many fucking holes for myself and then get surprised when I find that I’ve fallen in one. I laugh hoarsely. In a twisted way, this actually is a little funny. “At least I’m actually crazy this time.”  
  
“What?” Dick sounds heartbroken. A sick part of me is satisfied. Oh God, I’m a terrible person, I don’t even want to think about how terrible. Why did you say that, why did you _say that, why did you say that?_  
  
Dick sounds pleading. “Hey, you’re not crazy. You never were. I’m really sorry I hurt you back then.”  
  
At least he’s finally gotten the hint. Ugh, what is _wrong_ with me? The sudden, irrational anger drains away, leaving me beached and exhausted. Stupid Junior, stupid, stupid, _stupid_. I want to bash our head through a wall, a brick wall.  
  
Dick is still talking. “With Bruce gone, I was trying to do what was best for everyone, but I couldn’t. I was wrong, and I’m sorry. That’s _all_ on me, Tim. You were right all along, not crazy at all. You know that, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” I say, even though I know he’s wrong. But I also know that arguing will just make him feel worse about firing me in favor of Damian for his Robin, even though I deserved it. Dick was in pain from losing Dad, too, and instead of being understanding, I kept reopening the wound by insisting that he was alive, and when Dick gave Damian Robin, I responded by tantruming like a self-centered child. I didn’t deserve to be Robin, not like that. It’s not fair for me to be hurt when they both needed things to be that way more than I did. I should have thought about them instead of only thinking about myself. Tears fill my eyes. “I-I’m sorry, Dick. I don’t know why I said that…”  
  
“No, don’t worry about it, Bud.” Dick offers me a smile. I don’t deserve forgiveness for the terrible things I’ve just said. His smile must be fake. “I know you’re not back at a hundred percent, yet.”  
  
I squeeze my eyes shut as the room spins again. “I...I don’t think I’m ever going to be.” He’s expecting me to get better, but what if it’s just another expectation I’ll fail to fulfill?  
  
“Hey, don’t say that.” He takes my hand again, and this time I let him hold it, even though his touch is like acid. “You’ll get better, I promise.”  
  
He shouldn’t make promises he can’t keep. He should leave that for Dad.  
  
No. Shut _up_ , Junior. After everything he’s done for me, here I am thinking things like _that_. What is _wrong_ with me?  
  
“I’m tired,” I blurt, and it’s true. My eyes are closing on their own.  
  
“Alright. Just have a few more sips of water…” He holds the glass to my mouth, and I take a few small sips. He helps me lie down and tucks the blanket in around my shoulders. He shouldn’t be so nice to me when I’ve been so cruel to him. I hear the gentle smile in his voice, vaguely feel his hand stroke my head. I know it’s terrible of me, but I don’t want him to touch me.  
  
“Good night, Tim.”  
  
~~~  
  
“Master Bruce wanted to know if you’d like to see him soon,” Alfred says.  
  
The idea makes me feel sick. He’s probably furious after what I’ve done to him. I was supposed to be careful, I _promised_ I’d be careful, but I ran off on my own and— just like Jason— how could I be so goddamn _thoughtless_ —  
  
_Is he out there? Oh god, is he coming? Footsteps, footsteps, dress shoes on concrete—_  
  
“Master Timothy?” It’s Alfred. I’m at the Manor. It’s safe here. “Tell me what’s the matter, please.”  
  
“N-nothing…” My heart is fluttering in my chest, inconsistent from fear. It’s nothing, though, nothing’s wrong, I’m at the Manor perfectly safe, why can’t I just calm down? Stupid, stupid, stu—  
  
“Breathing exercises.” Alfred’s voice floats down from a cloud.  
  
I try to obey. Even though I can’t do them quite right, I still feel a little better. The footsteps fade. Ace whines from his spot at the foot of my bed, lays his head on my shin. I forgot he was up here with me, but the weight of his head is nice. Oh, I remember now, Cass got a mini staircase from somewhere and put it next to my bed so that Ace can get up.  
  
“There you are, Master Timothy.” Alfred adjusts the new winter blanket he added to my bed. With the weather getting colder, he’s worried I’ll get sick, which is the last thing we need right now. Dr. Thompkins approved extra antibiotics for the winter, and she’s going to come over soon with this year’s flu shot. “Comfortable?”  
  
“Yeah. Thanks, Alfred.”  
  
“Of course, sir.” He rustles the newspaper. “Now, where were we…? Ah, yes, eighteen across.”  
  
We still do the daily crossword together every afternoon. It’s a nice routine, and it feels good to be able to do something, even if it’s just a stupid crossword puzzle. It’s silly, I guess, but I like when Alfred sits with me. He’s not on edge like Duke, and I don’t feel like I need to act healthier so I don’t worry him like I do with Steph or Kon. I know it’s wrong in the long run to lie to them, but I can’t help it. All I do is hurt them…  
  
Bruce. I hate what I’m doing to him, but I can’t stop. Maybe it’s really Junior behind it. I’m not sure. Before all this, I remember, he used to sit with me when I’d get hurt in the field. One time, I accidentally breathed Scarecrow toxin, and I think I clung onto him like a little kid, but I think he let me, even though he had better things to do. He held me and said comforting words, but when I try to remember them now—  
  
_Tell Daddy, go ahead, Junior, you can tell Daddy anything…  
  
No, Junior, that’s_ not _what he said._ I shouldn’t be afraid, Dad never did anything to hurt me, even when I did something, everything wrong, he still…what? He still _what?  
  
“What?”_  
  
“Sir?” Alfred leans forward, putting the newspaper aside for a moment.  
  
My eyes sting. “I-I’m sorry, Alfred...I can’t...focus, for some reason…” He must be so disappointed. No, it’s just a crossword puzzle, and we’ve left it unfinished plenty of times. Why don’t I make sense? Why don’t I make any fucking sense?!  
  
“That’s quite alright, Timothy,” Alfred says. “You know that.”  
  
I want to hug him, but that would be weird. Instead I just nod, even as the tears gather in my eyes. “Yeah...I guess so...”  
  
“Would you like to do some listening?” Alfred picks up the headphones Jay brought me.  
  
“Okay.” Maybe some science will make me feel better. _Nothing makes you feel better, you disgusting ingrate, nothing ever will._ Shut _up,_ Junior.  
  
Alfred puts the headphones on my head, plays the audiobook, which is an AP Environmental Science textbook Jay apparently ordered for me from a teacher’s catalogue. The voice is a woman’s, smooth and monotonous.  
  
_While natural selection still drives evolution in the rest of Earth’s species, humans have largely circumvented evolutionary pressures through technological advances. Some scientists posit that the subspecies colloquially known as “meta-humans” are the “next step” in human evolution, while others posit that meta-humans are not truly human at all, raising much controversy in the scientific community as well as society as a whole. With the incidence and intensity of natural disasters on the rise due to climate change, the way that the human species will deal with drastic environmental changes remains particularly important, hence the urgency many feel in regards to meta-human studies.  
  
At the core of the conflict is a question— when faced with all these catastrophes, how will we humans adapt?  
  
How will we change?  
  
Will we still be human at all?  
  
Or does tragedy have the potential to change our fundamental identity?  
  
These are the questions—_  
  
I yank the headphones off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I have a little too much fun writing the science textbook? I was almost a biology/environmental science major before I decided on English, so maybe :""D haha
> 
> I feel bad for Dick sometimes, I feel like Tim-centric fanfic writers generally don't give him enough credit;; like yeah he epically messed up on multiple fronts, but he was trying his best as like a ~25-yr-old kid to be a parent to a crazy little assassin boy while grieving his father (who didn't exactly model great parenting for him to learn from; naturally he thought the best way to deal with Dami's angst was to make him Robin cuz 'ey, it worked for me, right...?!'), plus taking on the responsibility of being Batman, like cut the man some slack :"") I think he genuinely wants to be a good brother and does love Tim, even if he doesn't make the smartest decisions. (Also, his name is Dick, so he deserves some sympathy and respect for going through 4-12th grade without switching to Richard lmao) I feel like Tim would recognize Dick's effort and downplay the harmful effects of Dick's actions bc of the effort, but what do y'all think? '~'
> 
> lol anyway, not to sound like a broken record, but thank you guys for all the kudos-ing and especially commenting!! It means a lot to me that people are enjoying~ T.T <3  
> As usual, please feel free to let me know your thoughts! I'll be back next Saturday with an update!! :D


	12. Barbara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! First, I'm really sorry about the random lapse in updates and replies the past couple weeks. :(  
> Idk why, but I started feeling a lil depressed and I didn't feel like logging on. I'm feeling better now, though, so here we are with another chapter! In the future, I'll try to have more drafts saved directly on here so it's easier for me to post if I'm not feeling motivated. I feel like I made a commitment to an update schedule and then flopped :"") 
> 
> Thank you for your patience guys! <3 Please enjoy~

The GCPD receives more than its fair share of suspicious packages. Explosives, gas dispensers, various body parts of various people, or even prank confetti bombs from disgruntled kids. The look on Dad’s face as he stares at the camera bag on the kitchen table is the same one he gives those packages when they arrive at the Station.  
  
Dad, Alycia, and I are in the kitchen; it’s Dad’s turn to make dinner, and Alycia is over to talk Gordon Clean Energy logistics.  
  
We’ve already discussed the camera, but he’s still hesitating. The crease between his eyebrows deepens even more. “Are you sure about this, Sweetie?”  
  
“Yeah. I’m sure.” My stomach is a little tight, but nothing I can’t handle with a few breathing exercises. “I’ll let you know if I need a break.”  
  
“Well...okay…” Slowly, Dad takes the camera and puts it around his neck. We used to use it a lot more when I was a kid, but now Dad holds it like it’s contaminated. “So you just want me to wear this around the house?”  
  
“Just for an hour or so.” I figure we’ll start with that. My plan is to get used to seeing it with the lens cap on, then without, then he’ll take candid photos of me occasionally. Then I want him to take regular photos. I am _not_ letting the Joker win. “You can take it off if it gets uncomfortable, though.”  
  
“Alright, Honey…”  
  
“But Babs,” Alycia says, “you said yourself that triggers can change, kinda randomly. You sure this is worth it?”  
  
I nod. In the past, guns have always been more of an issue for me, and I haven’t eaten marshmallows since that night, either. But now, for whatever reason, my subconscious has decided cameras are the danger. It’s possible it’ll change its mind again later, and I know that, I’ve been trying to come to terms with that fact. So this exercise isn’t necessarily about making sure I’m never affected by a camera again. This is about proving to myself that, no matter what, I don’t need to be controlled by my past. Especially not by the actions of a dead psychotic clown. I’m not his art project, I’m not his _masterpiece._ I’m Barbara Gordon, I’m Batgirl.  
  
For the next hour, we simply go about our business. Dad cooks dinner— he’s baking barbeque ribs in the oven. Since my surgery, he’s been a little obsessed with feeding me well, but I guess I should have expected that. While Alycia and I talk investors, I make sure to glance at the camera every once in a while, do a few discreet breathing exercises. It’s fine. _I’m_ fine. I’m doing great, actually.  
  
In fact, it seems like Dad is more bothered by the whole exercise than I am. As soon as the hour’s up, he quickly takes the camera off and stashes it away in the cabinet where we always hide it.  
  
When he puts the baby-back ribs on the table, he offers me a strained smile. Maybe I’ll have someone else help me if it’s too much for him. I thought since our little argument over my implant surgery, it’d be cathartic for him to help me with this, but he’s probably almost as emotionally invested in what happened to me as I am. Maybe Alfred or Dick would be less rattled.  
  
“Wanna stay for dinner, Alycia?” he asks.  
  
She pulls on her coat with a sheepish smile. “Ah, sorry, Commissioner, I already made plans.”  
  
“Have fun,” I say, winking at her. She and her girlfriend are supposed to have a hot date tonight.  
  
Alycia sticks her tongue out at me and leaves. Dad and I finish dinner peacefully, and after that I go to my room to do some work. I nearly jump out of my skin at the shadowy figure sitting on my bed.  
  
“Oh my god, Steph…” I turn the light on, close the door, manage a chuckle. “I almost peed myself.”  
  
Uncharacteristically, she doesn’t laugh. “Sorry…I stopped by your place but Frankie said you were here.”  
  
“Yeah, just for a bit.” I sit on the bed next to her. I’m not going to tell her why I’ve been here instead of my place, not yet, and especially not right now, for both of our sakes; I have a feeling this isn’t exactly a social visit. Since Cass is back in town, Orphan would be Spoiler’s first choice to punch thugs with, and when she wants a friend, she usually talks to Harper Row, but I’m not sure how in-the-loop Harper is about what’s been going on with the family lately. When Steph wants to talk to me, I’m guessing she’s looking for a mentor. “What’s up?”  
  
“I just…” She bites her lip. “Well, is now a bad time? I don’t wanna, like, just dump all my bullshit on you out of the blue…”  
  
I touch her arm. “Don’t worry about that. What’s on your mind?” I ask, even though I know.  
  
She’s quiet for a moment. She’s looking at her hands in her lap instead of at me. “I just...I don’t know if Dick told you already, but Tim’s started having mood swings lately...and they’re kinda hard to manage…”  
  
I wince. I haven’t been to the Manor or talked to any of them since fixing Jay’s computer, so this is news to me, though I guess I should have expected it. “You know it’s not about you, Steph, whatever he’s upset about.”  
  
“I know, I’m just…” Her voice breaks. “I’m just afraid Tim won’t ever be the same…It’s so godawful, but...but...” She wipes her eyes and sniffles, keeping her gaze down. Her shoulders are hunched, like the sky pressing Atlas down. “I can’t help but think sometimes that he’s not the Tim I want to spend the rest of my life with…”  
  
Oh, no. This is inevitable, totally normal, but I’ve been so wrapped up in my own problems I didn’t even think about checking on her; it didn’t even occur to me that she might be struggling this much, thinking she’s a bad person for having doubts. I want to help her feel better, but I’m not sure what to say. “Steph…”  
  
“It...It’s so _fucking awful_ , Babs!” She buries her face in her hands as I wrap an arm around her. She doesn’t shove me off, but doesn’t lean into it either. “How can I even _think_ something like that when...he’s…?” Steph chokes back a sob.  
  
I rub her back, bite my lip as I carefully formulate my next words. “He’s not in a good place right now, but I promise, he _will_ get better.” Dr. Thompkins has been optimistic about that, at least, last I heard.  
  
But still, I’m not sure if I should tell Steph to leave the relationship or not. I know Tim would never want to be a burden on her, to hold her back, but I also know that he would prioritize her well-being over his own, and having her around has definitely helped him.  
  
“I know…” Steph pulls her feet up to the bed, wraps her arms around her knees. She’s wearing pink Garfield socks with holes in the toes. “I know that, but that only makes me that much worse of a person, right? I _know_ it’s not forever, so why am I so...ugh!” She wipes her eyes furiously. “I’m so damn _selfish_!”  
  
My brow furrows deeper. Maybe the toll on her mental health isn’t worth it. “Steph, you need to cut yourself some slack. Thousands of _married_ couples have split over less than this. If you feel like you can’t do it, you can take a break, you know. Just be friends for a while. It’s not like you’re chained together for life.”  
  
“But Babs, he was there for _me_ when I was at my lowest, and _god_ was it a _low_...I expected him to hate me forever after what I did, but he and my mom were the only ones who stuck by me through my pregnancy, and...” Steph sighs shakily. “I _want_ to be a person who can be there for him, too, but…no matter how hard I try…” Her voice is like broken glass. “I’m just not _good enough_.”  
  
“Steph…”  
  
“I-I lost my temper with him…What kind of person _does that_?” Her face crumples.  
  
I end up holding her for a while as she cries, long sobs that gradually get louder as she stops trying to hold them back. Dad hears and comes in to check on me, but he quietly closes the door when he sees I’m with someone, thankfully doesn’t ask how she got in here.  
  
I’m really not sure how I can convince Steph that she’s a good person. I know growing up with Cluemaster as a father was never easy, and her need for approval has led her down some dark paths. Steph always covers it up with a bubbly, feisty attitude, but deep down she’s afraid that she’ll never be good enough because she isn’t _capable_ of it. I guess it’s not my job to fix her problems, but boy is it hard not to try...  
  
“Tim has faith in you,” I say finally. “He always has.”  
  
She sniffles, bites her lip. “Tim has faith in _everybody_ , Babs. That’s bit him in the ass too many times by now, don’t you think?”  
  
“I have faith in you, too, Steph.” I keep one arm around her, give her shoulder a squeeze with my other hand. “Everybody makes mistakes sometimes. And it’s normal to be tired. But none of us are alone, okay?” I grab her a tissue off my nightstand and give it to her. “Tim wouldn’t want your life to screech to a halt on his account. So go to school, do your homework, get some sleep, and hang out with your friends.”  
  
Steph blows her nose, manages a smile. “Of course _Ms. Gordon_ is telling me to do my homework at a time like this.”  
  
I smile back, give her a little elbow. I know I’m not the most generous TA in terms of her grades, but it’s because I know she can do better with a little push. Maybe that’s all she needs right now, and if I can’t make her know how worthy she is, I can at least give her some encouragement. “You know, it’s okay not to be with Tim one hundred percent of the time. You can still be a good friend, or girlfriend, or whatever you want to be, without sacrificing yourself to do it; in fact, that’s the _only_ way. Okay?”  
  
“Yeah…” She sniffles again, takes a deep breath. “Thanks, Babs.” She punches me in the arm playfully. “You’re like the big sister I never had.”  
  
I pull her into another hug. “You _do_ have me. Don’t you dare forget it.”  
  
~~~  
  
The camera clicks again.  
  
I’m hyper-aware of myself, trying to detect any sign of anxiety and soothe it, manage it. Deep breaths. _You’re Barbara Gordon. You’re Batgirl. You’re not an object. You’re a person, a beautiful, valuable person. What’s been done to you does not diminish your worth._  
  
Good. I’m feeling pretty good.  
  
Dick whistles, looking at the picture on the camera. “Still got it, Babs.”  
  
I smirk at him. “Shut up.”  
  
Since it was bothering Dad so much, I decided to ask Dick to help me with the camera exposure therapy. He jokes around a little too much sometimes, but it does help keep things light, and I know sometimes that’s what I need. I get too serious sometimes.  
  
“A few more?” he asks.  
  
“Yeah.” I stare directly into the lens, smile for the camera. We’re deep inside Gotham Park, which is mostly deserted this far inwards, aside from the occasional biker or jogger. Behind me, the autumn foliage is brilliant orange, red, yellow. I thought it’d be a good backdrop for some photos. Plus, it’ll placate Frankie and Alycia, since they’re always saying I ought to update my social media more often.  
  
Dick checks the picture and grins at me. “Mind sending some of these to me?”  
  
I roll my eyes playfully. “Maybe if you’re good.”  
  
We probably shouldn’t flirt; considering our track record, it’s probably not going to end up well. Still, as long as we’re on the same page about not getting back together, a little flirting for fun should be harmless, right?  
  
He snaps a few more photos, and I’m proud that I feel barely any anxiety at all. We sit on one of the park benches together, just to enjoy the view of the leaves changing. The sun’s starting to set, too.  
  
“Thanks for helping me with this, Dick.”  
  
“Of course.” He elbows me. “You can always count on me, Babs, promise.”  
  
If we’ll never be a good couple, I’m glad we can still be close friends.  
  
“So, you doin’ okay, lately?” I ask.  
  
“Well…” he sighs, offers me a small smile. “As okay as I can, I guess.”  
  
When I’m this close to him, I can see the slight texture difference in the skin on his cheek— he’s wearing make-up to cover something up. I brush my thumb over it. “Hey, what happened?”  
  
“Eh, you know, a fight.” He grins.  
  
“Shut up,” I shove him lightly and he laughs.  
  
We’re quiet for a moment, before he says something else. “Hey, Babs?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
He hesitates a second. “Did...did Tim ever talk to you about… _Robin_?” I know from the way he says it that he’s not talking about Damian, but rather the Robin mantle itself; he’s asking about when Tim transitioned to Red Robin last year, after Dick decided to make Damian his Robin. But why is this coming up all of a sudden?  
  
“Um, no. Why?”  
  
He leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees. One hand covers his mouth, like he’s not sure if he wants to say anything more. “Well...I went to the Manor yesterday to hang out with Tim...and he said something…”  
  
I raise an eyebrow, lean forward, too, so I can look at him better. When I do, I see the reason he’s hiding from my gaze in the first place is because he’s crying. “Dick, you know he didn’t mean it,” I say. “Steph told me about his mood swings. That’s probably all it was.”  
  
“No…” He wipes his eyes, looks at me now, pleadingly. “I don’t think so. There’s just something about the way he said it...I think...I think I hurt him more than I thought when I made Damian Robin...I didn’t mean to, and I thought we were cool now, but…”  
  
I frown. As far as I’d known, Tim had accepted it, grew into the role of Red Robin, made it his own. He’d been doing well flying solo, then with the Knights, before Kate went off to Colony. While I can’t deny that Dick didn’t do the best job handling the situation last year, I’d thought they’d made up.  
  
Or is it that Tim had just let us think he was okay with it, so as not to rock the boat? It’s something Tim would do, always one to keep quiet about his own hurts to keep peace in the family. Considering he’d put up with a little brother who’d literally wanted to murder him for a while, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s trying to stifle his own feelings to protect Dick. Maybe his decreased control over his emotions is just finally letting him release his anger? Or maybe it was something the Joker said, about being replaced or something, that reopened the wounds?  
  
Still, I’m not sure there’s much to do about it right now. It doesn’t sound like Tim is ready to talk about it, based on what Steph told me, not to mention that Dick’s too invested in it. I know how badly he wants to be a good big brother to the others, and how hard he finds it to forgive himself for mistakes. It means a lot to him when they affirm that he’s been a good brother, and on the flip side, he feels terrible when they suggest that he hasn’t. If they try to talk about it now, he’ll try to rush a reconciliation and get even more distressed when it doesn’t work.  
  
“Dick...you’ve already apologized to Tim for that, right?” I say. He nods glumly, but doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “For now, that’s really all you can do. There wasn’t really a right answer in that situation.” With Batman presumed dead, Hush masquerading as Bruce, a murderous child assassin to raise, a criminal brother to keep in prison, not to mention the pressure of taking on the role of Gotham’s protector himself, it makes sense that Tim’s needs would have taken a backseat. It makes sense that Dick had pushed away the one who’d pushed him most strongly to take up the cowl.  
  
“I mean...I tried to tell myself that,” Dick sighs, runs a hand down his face. “But...I can’t help but wonder if that really was the best I could do given the circumstances…” He leans back against the bench, and I mimic the motion. “I should have found another way, Babs. That’s always what we do, but somehow I…”  
  
He straightens, then, puts a hand to his ear.  
  
“Dick?”  
  
Seems like someone called his earpiece. “Yeah, tonight, ten p.m. See ya.” He turns back to me. “Sorry, that was Garth. He needs help with some stuff later.”  
  
I raise an eyebrow. “Nothing underwater, I hope?”  
  
Dick grimaces in a way that definitely means it’s underwater. “Don’t worry, he just lost his swim trunks.”  
  
“Uh-huh…” I stand with him. “But Dick, about Robin...don’t beat yourself up, okay?”  
  
His eyes are still sad, but he smiles, plants a kiss on my forehead. “I’ll try, only ‘cause you said so.” He pauses. “Will you start coming around to the Manor again soon?”  
  
I guess it’s about time I do. I still haven’t told any of them about what happened with my implant, mostly because I didn’t want to add to their collective plate, so to speak. But with the surgery successful and behind me, and my exposure therapy going so well, maybe I’m strong enough to go back and be the support Tim and Steph and the others need. I can tell them what happened now that it’s over.  
  
I glance at the camera bag, pick it up and put it over my shoulder. “Yeah, I think I’ll be ready soon.”  
  
He looks at me for a moment, his face soft. “Babs...you don’t have to hide when you’re feeling down. You know that, right?”  
  
I do, in theory, at least. I admit that a part of me doesn’t want to seem weak right now, especially with Bruce and Alfred struggling so much. Alfred doesn’t show it, but Dick’s told me the old man’s hair is looking patchier than before, and Bruce’s pain is always obvious. Maybe it was wrong of me to stay away, keep my surgery a secret. But on the other hand, I have my own support network apart from them; at the end of the day, I don’t need them for emotional support, and what’s the point of being around if I can’t truly be present when they need me?  
  
“Babs?”  
  
“Yeah,” I answer, managing a smile. “Yeah, I know.”  
  
~~~  
  
I let myself into the Manor. When there’s no one in the foyer, it seems more like a museum than a house, with its ridiculously high ceiling, the dazzling crystal chandelier hanging down, the velvet on marble floors, the elegant mahogany furnishings. I should have remembered— it needs people to really feel like a home; I shouldn’t have stayed away so long. It was a mistake I won’t repeat.  
  
Damian’s dog appears at the end of the hall, runs to investigate me. He gives my pocket a sniff, since I think I still have an old cough drop in there from who knows when. I give the dog a pat on the head. “Titus.”  
  
The great dane follows as I make my way towards the kitchen, looking for Alfred so I can announce myself. Before I run into Alfred, though, I find Tim in the living room. My heart jumps into my throat at the sight of his pale, scarred face, but I quickly step out to regain my composure. I’m fine, anyway. It was just a surprise, that’s all.  
  
I step back in and smile. See? No big deal. “Hey, Tim.”  
  
He looks up from the laptop. “Oh, hi.”  
  
He’s sitting at the table in a wheelchair, though it’s not the kind he can move on his own; it’s for patients. “You look better,” I say, pulling out a chair and sitting down next to him. He’s alone, for one, which must mean that they’re less worried about him on a minute-to-minute basis at least.  
  
He shrugs. “I guess.”  
  
We chat a bit. He’s still too weak to really start physical therapy for the nerve damage, but it sounds like he’s getting there with steady coaxing from Alfred, and his stepmom is ready to help him as soon as he’s able. Tim’s allowed some time on his computer now that his eyesight is more stable. He’s not supposed to work cases yet, but I can tell from the way he says it that he’s itching for it. He wants normalcy, and I understand.  
  
We’re talking about yesterday’s news (three simultaneous bank robberies, possibly Two-Face related) when he suddenly asks if I’ve talked to Dick recently.  
  
“What? Oh, yeah. Why?” I ask casually.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “I said horrible things to him a few days ago, but I didn’t mean it, not really…”  
  
“Well, maybe you could call him.” I try to keep my voice as gentle as possible; he’s getting agitated, and I don’t want it to escalate. “And if not, he’ll probably be around soon anyway.”  
  
He doesn’t seem to have heard me. “Besides, Junior’s the one who said it.” He flinches. “Wait, no...what I meant was…”  
  
My brow furrows. ‘Junior’ is what the Joker called him. I don’t think Tim remembers much about the night we found him. Maybe it’s better that way, maybe not. I try to keep the concern out of my voice, but it doesn’t entirely work. “Who’s Junior, Tim?”  
  
“He’s...I guess he’s me,” Tim says slowly. A strange smile spreads across his face. “Or what Da—...the _Joker_. What the Joker wants me to be. _Wanted_.”  
  
Oh, God. He seemed pretty coherent when I first arrived, but he’s starting to unravel a bit. We really don’t know what kinds of drugs the Joker forced on Tim, or what permanent effects they could have on his psyche. When paired with the repeated electrocution and other tortures he’d endured, which most likely included brainwashing, it’s truly a miracle he’s this sane. But hearing him almost call the Joker _Daddy_ makes my stomach knot. For a moment, I can see, _smell_ that damned clown, sticking a pipe into his gloating grin.  
  
It must show on my face, because Tim starts to apologize, but I cut him off. “No, no, don’t apologize. Nothing about what happened is your fault.”  
  
He looks at his lap, giggles a little before regaining his composure. “Thanks, Babs.” I can tell he doesn’t believe it. “I just...really hate Junior sometimes. Or maybe all the time.”  
  
“That’s alright,” I say, even though it unsettles me that he’s starting to refer to Junior as a separate person. I’m not sure if it’s good or bad. I reach out to rub his arm, make sure he sees me coming before I touch him. I remember how hard it was to be touched for a while after, but also how much I craved affection.  
  
He’s a little stiff at first, but he relaxes into my touch after a few seconds. “Babs…”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“How...how did the Joker die?”  
  
_Shit_. He doesn’t remember shooting the Joker, then. I haven’t brought it up out of fear that it’ll trigger him. I haven’t even told Dick or Alfred. I’m betting Bruce didn’t tell anyone. I have no idea what finding out the truth will do to him, his recovery. I go with the story Bruce gave the others. “There was a lot of gunfire, Tim. He got caught up in it.”  
  
He moves away from my touch. I wonder if he suspects I’m lying to him. “He _is_ dead, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” I nod. “We double-checked on that. I triple-checked. Jay quadruple-checked.”  
  
“If he’s not...I...I told him _everything_ , Babs…He’s trained us not to give up anything, even under duress, but I told him _everything_...” For a moment, I’m confused who Tim means by ‘he,’ but it’s Bruce who’s trained us, obviously, and Joker who Tim told; still, Tim’s not being entirely clear. Tim starts scratching at the bandages on his arms, nervously. “D-do you think he’ll be mad?”  
  
And now I guess he means Bruce. “No, Tim. Bruce already knows, and he’s not angry with you.”  
  
He sighs shakily, before breaking out into another too-wide smile. “God. Why am I always so fucking _fragile_?”  
  
God, I know _that_ feeling. “You’re not fragile, Tim.”  
  
He buries his face in his hands. His voice is muffled, but I can still hear his grin. “Everyone’s treating me like I’m made of glass, and I _hate_ it, but I haven’t given anyone a reason not to, so why am I even upset?” He chuckles a little. “I’m just making everything harder for everyone, but they won’t let me go home and leave them alone because I’m _out of my damn mind_ —” He starts laughing in earnest now, but his shoulders heave as though he’s crying.  
  
“Tim, breathe with me, okay?” I need the breathing exercise, too. He manages to calm down after a few minutes, but there are tears running down his cheeks. I scoot my chair closer, wipe the tears away with my thumb. He sags against me.  
  
“I understand,” I say. “You feel like you’re broken, but I promise you, you’re not.” He doesn’t answer, so I continue. “Did you ever call me broken after I got paralyzed?”  
  
“N-no…” he sniffles.  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“It’s different, Babs…” he squeezes his eyes shut. “You...you still had your mind...You were just as useful as when you have your legs. You didn’t sit around on your ass all the time, and lash out at everyone trying to help you— just—just because you were having a bad day.”  
  
My heart sinks, heavy as a sandbag. “Is...is that what you think you’re doing? Tim…” I take his hand. “Your brain has been _physically hurt_ , and it’s affecting your behavior. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s less valid. Besides, it’s normal to feel depressed and angry after something like this, even without any traumatic brain injury. I know I did.”  
  
He doesn’t seem to process what I’m saying, his eyes going glassy. “But I...I shouldn’t have let it happen…I should have...”  
  
“ _He_ shouldn’t have kidnapped you, Tim,” I say, maybe too firmly. He sounds like me, always telling myself that I should have checked the door, been a bit faster, been ready for that gun aimed at my spine. “You can’t blame yourself for what a criminal does to you, right? What evil people do to us doesn’t make us less than other people, and it _definitely_ doesn’t make us less than we were before.”  
  
Tim still doesn’t seem to hear me. He has a funny look in his eye; his mind is somewhere else. “I’m never going back out there…am I?”  
  
“You don’t have to.” I know what it’s like to think it’s the only way to be helpful, to contribute to the city’s safety, but it’s not. Not by a long shot. It’s scary to put the suit on again, but it’s not the only option.  
  
“No, I _want to_. But I can’t.” He holds a hand up in front of his face, flexes his fingers slowly. He can’t make a fist, his arm trembling with the effort. “I can’t even...Oh, God…He’ll never...” He lets his hand drop.  
  
“Hey, you never know,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. I got a little too heated, but luckily, he didn’t seem to notice. Gotta stay calm. I tap the back of my neck, where my implant connects to my spinal column. “Technology is advancing faster than ever. We might be able to get something like this for you, too.” I manage a smile. “Maybe you’ll be the one to design it.”  
  
“N-no...I don’t...no! I-I can’t even _think_!” he shouts. “Nothing is working anymore in my stupid, _stupid_ head!” He squeezes his eyes shut and starts hitting his forehead with his hands, but I grab his arms. He used to be stronger than me, but now stopping him is easy.  
  
“Tim, stop!” My eyes are wide as saucers, I can feel my heart punching against my ribs.  
  
He starts laughing again, between sobs and apologies. I want to cry, too, but I try to hold it together for his sake. I drape an arm around his shoulders. I’m not sure what to say, so I just pull him close and try not to lose it myself. It’s half an hour before he calms down enough to talk.  
  
“I don’t—…” he swallows. “I don’t want to do this anymore…”  
  
He’s leaning into me. “Do what anymore, Tim?”  
  
“I—I don’t know…”  
  
I wish I could say something comforting about losing my mind, but I can’t. I’ve been trying not to think about it, but I thought for a while that Grotesque had taken my mind, my greatest strength, made me lose my eidetic memory, my ability to reason, even think clearly. And it had scared the _hell_ out of me. Tim’s been going through that worry for over two months, now, and with his body even more damaged than mine was, I’m sure it’s just that much scarier.  
  
I guess a part of me was hoping Tim would be feeling better when I came to visit today, and physically he definitely seems better than the last time I saw him, but I should have been better prepared for his mental health to be worse. Between the brain injuries, PTSD, side effects of medications, or even straight-up anxiety or depression, it’s highly possible his mental recovery will be just as hard, if not harder, than his physical recovery.  
  
Well, we at least know he’s willing to hurt himself if none of us are around to stop him— pounding on his head like just now. Steph mentioned to me weeks ago that Tim tried to stab himself with a pen. She cried over it with me, but she made me swear not to tell him because she thinks he’ll only feel guilty for hurting her, and honestly she’s probably right.  
  
Maybe it’s not so helpful to say he’s not worth any less than he was before when he didn’t recognize his own value in the first place. I need to talk to Bruce. Dick said Bruce and Tim still haven’t figured things out.  
  
Alfred comes in then and takes care of Tim, but I excuse myself to go down to the Cave. Sure enough, Bruce is already sitting at the Bat Computer, working on some of the stuff I sent him from Tim’s computer.  
  
“Starting early tonight, aren’t you?”  
  
He ignores me.  
  
I walk closer, lean one hip against the desk. “Bruce, can we talk?”  
  
He only grunts in response.  
  
“It’s about Tim.”  
  
“This is one of his cases here.” As usual, Bruce is missing the point. He leans back in the chair, puts a hand to his chin. “He had a suspicion that Trickster was back in Gotham and planning something, but I can’t seem to follow his notes here...”  
  
“Trickster?” I sigh. It’s true that Tim has always had a bad habit of keeping a lot of his notes in his head, which makes his case files a nightmare for the rest of us, but Bruce is just being weird, now, insisting on following up on a _Trickster_ case. The guy is a third-rate villain at best, and honestly the Flash is usually better-equipped to handle a schizophrenic man off his meds than Batman. Maybe I need to talk to Bruce about Bruce before I can talk to him about Tim. “Bruce, Tim asked us to take care of the _urgent_ stuff for him. Not _Trickster_. What are you doing?”  
  
“He’ll rest better if he knows _all_ of his cases have been taken care of.” He sounds so sure of himself that I know it’s an act. At least, I _hope_ he’s not really this dense.  
  
“Seriously?” I press the button that darkens the screen. Bruce looks at me accusingly, but I ignore that. “Are you sure you’re not just avoiding him?”  
  
“This is how he wants it, Barbara.” He reaches for the screen brightening button, but I intercept his hand, push it away.  
  
“Okay. I’m not sure it’s that simple, Bruce, but let’s pretend for a minute that it is.” I lean against the desk again. “So, if Tim doesn’t want to see you, are you really doing okay, emotionally?”  
  
Bruce opens his mouth, doesn’t have anything to say, sighs. “Barbara, now really isn’t the time.”  
  
“Because Trickster may or may not be on the loose based on a months-old tip? Come on, Bruce. You’re punishing yourself.”  
  
He doesn’t say anything.  
  
“Aren’t you?”  
  
He moistens his lips, breathes deeply. I think I detect a slight shakiness to it. “It makes sense if Tim doesn’t want to see me. I failed him as a hero, a detective, a mentor...a—a father...I shouldn’t have accepted his death so easily. I should have found him sooner, before that madman had finished his brainwashing…”  
  
My heart is breaking for him. When he says stuff like that, he sounds just like Dad. “Bruce…”  
  
“He must have been _waiting for me_ , Barbara...” Suddenly, he pounds a fist on the desk, rattling the whole computer. “Damn it!” I jump, but he doesn’t notice, just stands and starts pacing. “He was waiting for me to save him, for hours, days, _weeks_ , and I _didn’t come_. For a while, I...I _wasn’t even looking_.” He stops for a moment. “Or maybe...maybe he’d long given up on me by the time we found him…” He screams in anguish, pounds his fists once against the stone wall of the cave, leans his forehead against it. “And _he would have been right to_.”  
  
Oh God, he’s doing it again. He can’t just wallow in his guilt like this; it’s not helping anyone, least of all Bruce himself. I have to appeal to his logic— his emotions are a foreign concept to him.  
  
“ _Bruce_.” I try to keep my voice as steady as possible, matter-of-fact and calculated, but without being cold. “What happened to Tim is _not_ your fault, okay? The Joker is responsible for his own twisted actions, not you. Tim might not be in a place he can see that yet, but you _acting_ like you’re guilty isn’t helping. If the Joker made him afraid of you, you avoiding him is only reinforcing it.”  
  
Bruce turns slightly, seems to give that some thought. Sure enough, the appeal to his logical side seems to help him calm down a little. He lets his hands drop back down to his sides. “But...but how can I talk to him if seeing me is...is frightening?”  
  
“Well...we could try exposure therapy. That’s what I use,” I say. I know it’s not how Bruce deals with fear, but his method of just powering through its most intense form is too much for most people, especially those of us who are a bit more attuned to our emotions. “Basically, we reintroduce you two in small increments. Maybe first you can video-chat for a minute, then two, then five, then ten. Then maybe be in the same room for two minutes.”  
  
“So, we’re reverse-brainwashing him.”  
  
“Um, I…guess...?” For the supposed world’s greatest detective, he really is dense. “If you want to think of it that way, then sure. But that’s the basic idea. If it seems to help, then we keep working at it until he’s comfortable around you again. If it doesn’t seem to help, then we try something else. There are tons of therapy tactics out there.”  
  
Bruce is quiet for a while. I know it’ll hurt, having to see Tim afraid of him so often, but he’ll just have to not take it personally. It’s not a guarantee that it’ll help; my doctor warned me back when I first tried exposure therapy that it was possible it would make my symptoms worse, but it does work for some people. I figure that’s probably the easiest thing Bruce can try, since basically everyone except Dick is against the idea of a real therapist; though there are confidentiality laws, we’d know better than anyone that the law in Gotham can be flexible, and we can’t risk our identities leaking. We’d need much more than a therapist if that were to happen.  
  
“I’ll think about it,” Bruce says finally. He turns the screen brightness back on, then, signaling that the conversation is over.  
  
“Good,” I say, even though I’d rather have had him agree to it. Then again, maybe it’s better to get Tim to agree to it before I get Bruce to. But then if Bruce had refused, it might have hurt Tim. But now if Bruce agrees and Tim refuses, Bruce might be hurt. Great job, Babs. Maybe I didn’t think this through entirely. I got too passionate after seeing what Tim’s been going through.  
  
I glance at Bruce again before I go back upstairs. He’s studying the Trickster case intently, as though it’s important or worth his time. Frankly, I’m surprised _Tim_ even considered Trickster worth his time, since he’s been bagging Trickster easily since he was fourteen. But it’s clear Bruce is deflecting. He doesn’t know what to do with his emotions other than pour them into casework. I’m hoping that working with Tim might be therapeutic for Bruce, too.  
  
I want to check on Tim one more time before I go, though, make sure he’s okay. Or...as okay as he can be right now, I guess.  
  
When I get up to his room, though, Alfred waves to me from his seat by Tim’s bed and puts a finger to his lips. Primly, he rises and meets me outside Tim’s room.  
  
Alfred looks tired, older, but his speech is still precise and measured as always. “Timothy is sleeping, now. He still tires rather easily, especially after he’s gotten upset.”  
  
“I understand,” I say. Still, I hope my visit didn’t do more harm than good. “Did he feel any better before he fell asleep?”  
  
“He did calm down a bit, yes,” Alfred assures me. “Don’t worry, Ms. Gordon. He is glad to have seen you; I asked. I promised I’d tell you before you go that he’s sorry he got upset in your presence. But of course I’ll tell him you weren’t angry with him at all in the first place.”  
  
I manage a smile. “Thanks, Alfred. You’re taking good care of him. Make sure you take care of yourself, too, right?”  
  
Alfred smiles back and pats my arm affectionately, a rare gesture from the stoic man. “Of course, Ms. Gordon. Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for your patience with me, guys!! And I wanna extend special thanks to those who commented even though I wasn't sticking to my schedule, seeing your comments when I logged on again really gave me an emotional boost <3 <3 haha
> 
> Anyway, hope y'all had/are having a happy holiday season, and looking forward to the new year together! :D


	13. Conner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience everybody! Y'all were really understanding last week and I really appreciate it!! <3 <3

I super-speed and grab the back of Bart’s shirt before he can run to Wayne Manor without us. He’s faster than me in general, but luckily, I manage to catch him. “Bart! Take it slow, remember? Tim’s still really sick.”  
  
“Right, sorry.” Bart starts bouncing on his heels as soon as I put him down.  
  
Cassie puts her hands on her hips and gives Bart a look. “If you can’t handle this, you can run back to San Francisco.” I know she doesn’t mean that, but she’s just saying it to keep Bart on his best behavior.  
  
“No, no, I can handle it!” Bart pleads. “I’ve got it, I’ve got it! I’m just alittleexcited! Sinceyouknowwe’vebeenreallyworriedaboutTimbuttheyonlyletConnerseehimandthat’skinda—”  
  
“Bart!” I interrupt. I muss his hair. He’s still shorter than me, probably will be for at least another year, so I’m going to take advantage of it as much as possible before he outgrows me. “Let’s go, huh?”  
  
Bart nods so fast I don’t think Cassie even sees it. They follow me up to the front door, where we knock and Alfred lets us in. When he sees Bart, he instantly gets a stern look on his face. “Mr. Allen. I trust there will be no shenanigans today?”  
  
“Umyessirmybad.”  
  
“Good.” Alfred eyes him a second longer before greeting me and Cassie. “Master Timothy is in the living room, awaiting your arrival.”  
  
Tim smiles when he sees us— a normal smile, not the weird Joker-ified one. I saw him a few days ago, but he already looks a little better. He’s sitting at the table in his wheelchair, and from the looks of it, working on his laptop, though I hope they’re not letting him do cases yet. He’s wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt and sweats, which is a step up from pajamas, but they don’t really fit him anymore because of the lost weight. Cassie and Bart won’t be able to see much of the bleaching and scarring on his skin because of the modest clothes, and while it _is_ getting colder, I’m guessing it was a deliberate choice Tim made, too.  
  
Bart runs over to him just a tad faster than a normal boy can run. “Tim! I missed you somuchdude!CanIgiveyouahugorwillithurt?”  
  
Tim blinks at Bart for a moment. “Um…”  
  
“Hug?” Bart paraphrases.  
  
“Oh. A _slow_ one would be okay.”  
  
Bart gives him a long hug, and Cassie does, too. She squeezes his hand when she pulls away, then brushes her finger by his jaw, near the scar. “Gods, Tim…”  
  
“Don’t worry, Cassie, I’m feeling a lot better these days.” I hope that’s true. Stephanie said his emotions have still been all over the place the past few days.  
  
“Good.” Cassie pats his arm.  
  
“I like the haircut,” Bart blurts. “Looks badass!”  
  
“Ha. Thanks.”  
  
I’ve already talked over the plan for today with Tim, and we decided to just go for a walk on the Wayne Manor grounds. He doesn’t want to risk being recognized in public, since apparently “Timothy Drake-Wayne” is still just on vacation. Wayne Manor is private property, so no one should see us, but of course we’ll be following the no powers rule anyway. Tim hasn’t really gone outside since his kidnapping at all, so it’ll be good for him to get some fresh air.  
  
Still, Alfred wraps Tim up in a thick coat, a hat, a scarf, and tucks a blanket in around his legs before sending us off. It’s not that cold out yet, but Alfred doesn’t want to take a chance, and frankly I have to agree with him.  
  
I push the wheelchair, and Cassie and Bart flank Tim like a pair of bodyguards. We just chat for a while, catching Tim up on the happenings in San Francisco. It’s good to see him happy again, having fun. I’m thinking it might be better if he can move back into his place, maybe with us staying over to help him out. Now that the immediate medical concerns are out of the way, we don’t need Alfred as much, and having Batman in the same house makes Tim feel worse. He still won’t tell me why, but I don’t want to push him too far before he’s ready. I just hope he’ll tell me soon, instead of carrying it on his own.  
  
Tim is telling us about an audiobook he got from Jason Todd when he trails off.  
  
I stop pushing. “Tim?”  
  
His eyes look like marbles. He’s talking, but it’s slurred, no, they’re not even words, just sounds. This has happened before, but I still don’t know what the best solution is. Any time I went to get Alfred, it was always over by the time the old man got there. Gotta stay calm, though, that’s first, right?  
  
“Tim!” Cassie grabs his arm. “Tim, talk to us! What’s wrong?” Bart is practically vibrating with nerves, but he stays out of the way.  
  
“I got him.” I scoop Tim up and speed back into the Manor, careful not to jostle him. I’m about to call for Alfred when Tim grabs at my shirt collar. He looks confused. I hope he can’t hear how my heart is racing.  
  
“K-Kon...? What...happened...?”  
  
Cassie and Bart catch up in a second, Tim’s chair in tow. Cassie’s voice is a little shrill. “Conner, what’s wrong?”  
  
I can’t let my voice shake. “I don’t know. You okay, Tim?” I set him down on the couch. He’s usually more or less okay after these weird episodes, so this one’s probably no different, right?  
  
He’s doing the Joker smile again, but I know that means he’s upset. “I...I think so…”  
  
“Does anything hurt?”  
  
“Just...dizzy…”  
  
“Okay.” I let out a breath. “Just relax for a minute. I’ll get you some water.”  
  
“Thanks…”  
  
Bart follows me into the kitchen, both of us speeding a little. “Hey, Kon?” Bart says. “I think I know what happened.”  
  
“You do?” I raise an eyebrow. Sure, Bart’s read an entire library at super-speed, but that doesn’t mean he knows how to apply it. He might have acted six months more mature, but he certainly didn’t act much _smarter_ afterwards. He’s still a goofball at heart.  
  
“I read about stuff like it,” Bart continues. “Tim was electrocuted, right? You said it scrambled his brain a little. So I think he had a seizure.”  
  
I frown. I don’t know anything about seizures except what was in the few movies I’ve watched. “Aren’t seizures more...I don’t know, flail-y?”  
  
“There are different types,” Bart says. “I dunno, but we could bring it up to Alfred.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s a good idea.” I nod. “You do that.”  
  
“On it!” Bart speeds off, too fast for me to remind him of the no-powers-in-Wayne-Manor rule. Still, I think this is an exceptional situation.  
  
I bring the water to Tim, who’s looking a little more alert, and thankfully not smiling anymore. Cassie is sitting next to him, holding his hand, but he lets go to hold the cup with both hands. His grip is still unreliable. He drinks the water slowly.  
  
“Bart has a guess as to what it was,” I say, sitting on Tim’s other side.  
  
Tim raises an eyebrow. “He does?”  
  
I chuckle a little. “Yeah, that’s what I said. But he said he read about something like it. He thinks maybe it was a seizure.”  
  
“Oh.” Tim seems to think about it for a moment. “I thought I was just losing it, but that makes sense, actually.”  
  
I open my mouth to protest the _losing it_ part, but Cassie speaks first. “That’s kind of serious, isn’t it?”  
  
“Probably depends,” Tim says. Leave it to him to know random facts about seizures. “Most of the time seizure medication should be enough to manage it…”  
  
Alfred and Bart join us, and Alfred has a look at Tim before promising to call Dr. Thompkins, the Wayne (and Bat) family physician. Then he leaves us alone again.  
  
“You’re probably right about the seizures, Bart,” Tim says, offering Bart a smile. “It’s a big relief to have an explanation. Thanks.”  
  
Bart beams and drapes an arm around Tim’s shoulders. “Hey, what are friends for?”  
  
We decide to just watch a movie next, because Tim is too tired now to do anything else. He falls asleep within the first ten minutes, leaning on Cassie’s shoulder. Bart is sitting on his other side, and keeps looking at him worriedly.  
  
“It’s okay, Bart,” I say, even though I’m worried about Tim, too. I want to be as strong as I can for my friends— I’m Superboy, after all, right? “Tim gets tired really easily these days, but he just needs some rest.”  
  
“Yeah...yeah you’re right, Kon.” Bart manages a small grin, but from the way his eyes flit to Tim again, I’m not sure how sure he really feels. I’ll have to check on him more often; with how goofy he acts, sometimes I forget that he has serious worries, too.  
  
After the movie is over, Bart runs over to Central City since he still has a curfew for school tomorrow. Cassie hangs around downstairs while I take Tim up to his room. Despite the nap, he doesn’t look much more rested.  
  
Before we can get to his bedroom, though, we run into Batman in the hall.  
  
“Tim...Conner…” He nods at us. “A word?”  
  
Tim shoots me a panicked look, and he’s already smiling huge. “Uh, sorry Ba— Bruce, Tim’s really tired, but I can talk if you want.”  
  
“Oh, no, that’s alright.” Batman nods to Tim, who’s trying his best not to make eye contact, smiling into his lap. “Get some rest, Tim.”  
  
I give Batman a very fake smile and wheel Tim into his room, and then I basically shut the door in Batman’s face. Sometimes I think Tim’s family could use a good sock to the jaw, but apparently only Clark and Batman are allowed to go at it. When _they_ fight, it’s an intense personality clash over some ideological conflict, but when _I_ do it, all of a sudden it’s a hormonal teenage tantrum. What’s with that?  
  
Tim is still a little scared— I can hear his elevated heartbeat. I help him get settled in bed, sitting up against a stack of pillows by the headboard, then I pull the blanket over his legs and sit in the chair by his bed. “Hey, you wanna talk about it?”  
  
He brings a hand to his mouth, pulls the corners downward. “God, why am I still smiling?” He takes a few deep breaths. “I just…” He pulls his knees up to his chest, rests his forehead on them, latches his hands around the back of his head. “Daddy did something to me, Kon...He did something to my head...”  
  
“You mean the Joker?” I know he usually means the Joker when he says ‘Daddy,’ but he’s also called Batman that, too. He’s asked me to correct him when he does either.  
  
He lifts his head. “Did I call him ‘Daddy’ again? _Shit_.” He’s about to pound his head against his knees, but I stop him with my hand. This is also a thing he’s been doing lately which can’t be helping whatever brain damage might still be healing.  
  
“It’s okay, bro,” I say. “Go on. What were you saying?”  
  
He doesn’t move, leaving his forehead in my palm. He swallows. “ _The Joker_...he...he wouldn’t s-stop...talking…” He giggles a little, but manages to stop himself after a moment. “About B-Bruce…”  
  
“What did he say?”  
  
“He said B-Bruce was a b-bad...d-dad…” Tim is shivering, now, so I pull the blanket up around his shoulders. His teeth are chattering. “I-I know he was lying...but—…” he bites his lip. “J-Junior doesn’t b-believe me…”  
  
Junior is what the Joker tried to convince Tim into becoming— the Joker’s imaginary son. It scares me that Tim keeps referring to Junior as a separate person, apparently keeps talking to him, but maybe it’s a good thing? At least Junior is the one with the crazy ideas, not Tim. “Oh...Why not?”  
  
“B-because...I don’t know…” Tim drags his fingernails down his face, leaving behind red lines. It makes my heart skip a beat, but I try not to let it show. Instead, I casually take his hands so he doesn’t do it again. “I just...I just _hate him_ …He’s m-making me hurt Bruce...”  
  
I’m not really sure what the best thing to say would be. In my opinion, Batman _is_ kind of a bad dad. He’s emotionally unavailable, and he doesn’t help when Tim is going through something tough. Tim has a tendency to isolate himself when he’s having a hard time mentally, and honestly Batman has only allowed it and made it worse. Not to mention being a manipulative bastard, like that time he lied and told Tim there was a traitor on the team just to test Tim’s detective skills. Even Clark admits that Batman is a class A jerk sometimes, and they’re, like, best friends. So I’d say that maybe Batman needs a little hurting, as a wake-up call to go buy a parenting manual or something.  
  
But Tim isn’t spiteful like that; he always blames himself before he’ll blame anyone else.  
  
“Hey, Batman’s tough. He shouldn’t take the effects of literal _brainwashing_ personally, Tim.” I sit next to him on the bed, put an arm around his shoulders. Geez, he’s so thin. “If he can’t look at this from your point of view, then that’s on him, not you.”  
  
“No…” Tim is crying, now, smiling. “It’s my fault. I’m all mixed up...I try to remember things, but sometimes I can’t remember who it was…”  
  
“Who what was?” I ask gently.  
  
“If it was Bruce there, or the Joker, or both...o-or my real dad…” His shoulders shake with a sob. I know he still misses Mr. Drake. “And Junior keeps telling me lies about them...It’s like the Joker downloaded these _stupid thoughts_ into my mind and I can’t get him _out_ …” He claws at his scalp with sudden violence, drawing blood.  
  
“Whoa, whoa!” I speed and get the medical supplies Alfred keeps on the desk. “Tim, please, don’t hurt yourself!” I dab at the scratches with a cotton pad, put some ointment and Band-aids. I know they’ll stick in his hair and be a pain to take off later, but that’s better than germs getting in his scratches.  
  
“I—I’m not…?” he seems confused, then he gets angry. “I just wanted Junior...I wanted to hurt Junior…”  
  
Oh, boy. I want to turn to the Internet for some research on what to do with something like this, but I don’t even know what to search up. ‘Joker survivors support group’? ‘Brainwashing support group’? Stuff like that definitely exists in Gotham City, but still, Tim can’t go to those without compromising his secret identity. Junior might be a new resident in Tim’s head, but this isn’t exactly dissociative identity disorder, either, so that’s not what I’m looking for. Maybe it would fall into the category of a different mental illness? I have no idea what to Google.  
  
“You’re more important than Junior,” I say finally, around the hard lump that’s formed in my throat.  
  
Tim’s sobbing, now, but it sounds disturbingly like laughing. I don’t know what to say, now, so I just hold him. He cries on and off for over an hour, between apologizing to me for not being able to stop, but I just make sure he knows it’s alright, I’m here for him. I hate it, but that’s all I can do, for now at least. Eventually, he falls fitfully asleep, and I tuck him into bed. I hope for once he has a good dream.  
  
~~~  
  
When I showed up at Clark and Lois’ to pick up Jon for our ice cream outing, I wasn’t expecting Damian to be over for a playdate. I swear, Jon can make friends with an angry pit viper. Still, I can’t disappoint Jon, so I try to get Damian to come too, even if he’s a little goblin. I guess I don’t know much about kids, never really having been one, but it seems at least a little strange that he resists coming to ice cream at first. Is there a kid on earth who doesn’t like ice cream?  
  
I raise an eyebrow at him. “You really don’t wanna come, Damian?”  
  
He crosses his arms. His scowl’s almost as deep as Batman’s, but on his little face it’s more like a pout. “I am a vegetarian.”  
  
Jon bounces on the balls of his feet. “But there’s no meat in ice cream! Besides, they have dairy-free, too! C’mon, c’mon!”  
  
Damian stares at Jon for a moment before huffing. “Very well. I _suppose_ I can come along.”  
  
Jon cheers.  
  
“Cool. Let’s go, then.” I grab Jon’s fake winter coat off the hook by the door and hand it to him, and he chatters to Damian while he puts it on. Well, I guess it’s not _fake_ as in _not real_ , but as in he only wears it to seem more human. Damian, on the other hand, is wearing an expensive coat that doesn’t look that warm to me, but whatever floats the Waynes’ boats, I guess. Wait, Batman really does have a yacht, doesn’t he? Oof.  
  
As we’re walking to the ice cream parlor, Jon tells me about the science fair that Damian won at their school with some ground-breaking new invention. Damian looks smug about it as he tells Jon there’s no need to brag about it since it was so easy. I try not to get annoyed at him considering his age, but that doesn’t mean I have to get over the whole trying-to-murder-Tim thing. Jon has his friends, and I have mine, and I prefer people without severe ego problems.  
  
When we get there, there’s no one there but the old man who works the counter, since humans don’t usually buy ice cream in December. Jon orders his usual cookies-and-cream on a waffle cone, I get my rocky road, and Damian inspects the vegan options and chooses a raspberry sorbet.  
  
Normally, Jon and I sit outside unless it’s raining, but today we sit inside so Damian doesn’t get too chilly. It really bugs me sometimes how fragile humans are.  
  
After we finish our ice cream, I send Jon to the bathroom to wash his sticky face and hands, but with no super-speed allowed in public (even public bathrooms), that leaves me alone with Damian for a little while.  
  
He sits back in his chair, his arms crossed. “So, how is Drake, to your knowledge?”  
  
I can’t tell if he’s being mocking or if he’s actually concerned. “Um…yeah, he’s...hanging in there, I guess.”  
  
“I know you dislike me,” he says matter-of-factly. I’m about to protest, just because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but he continues. The frown on his face is even deeper than his dad’s. “You’re thinking that I ought to know how my own brother is doing, and that I am a terrible human being for not doing so. That is fine, though, because the opinion of a meathead such as you hardly matters.”  
  
“Um...no, that’s not what I was thinking…” I raise an eyebrow. “And I guess we can ignore the meathead comment. I just thought you didn’t care about Tim.”  
  
“Tt. I don’t.” Damian pouts. “But he is a nuisance to those I _do_ care for, so I thought perhaps you would give me a more truthful update. He hates me, so I don’t think he tells me the truth.”  
  
“Uh-huh…” I don’t think Tim really hates Damian, not really. They fight, and Tim thinks Damian is annoying, for sure, but hatred is on another level that honestly I’m not sure Tim is capable of. Strange to see how Damian’s interpreting the situation, though. I guess at the end of the day, deadly vigilante or not, he’s still just a kid. He might not understand people that well, especially considering he was raised by assassins. I should cut him some slack. “Well, I don’t think Tim hates you, Damian. He’s having a hard time right now, so he’s rarely in a good mood, but that’s not because of you.”  
  
“Hmph.” Damian is still pouting, but I don’t have the chance to say anything else before Jon comes back.  
  
As we walk home, Jon chatters happily to Damian, who listens and occasionally smirks or corrects Jon— little know-it-all. Still, I think maybe I understand why Clark lets Jon hang out with Damian. Even though Damian’s not exactly a good influence, I can’t imagine other kids their age liking him, so Damian _does_ need a friend. Jon’s a kid with a strong enough moral compass that he can be that friend without getting screwed up. The apples never fall far from the trees, and I guess that’s kinda cute.  
  
When we get to Clark’s apartment, Alfred is waiting outside with the car. I hope I didn’t make him wait by taking Damian out. Still, Alfred doesn’t say anything about that and just nods at us. “Misters Kent, Master Damian.”  
  
Damian huffs. “Hello, Pennyworth.” He turns to Jon. “Goodbye, Jon. Our appointment for tomorrow still stands?”  
  
“Yep!” Jon gives him a hug, Damian grumbles, and Alfred drives him home.  
  
Jon’s using his key to open the door to the apartment when he speaks. “Hey Conner?”  
  
“What’s up?”  
  
We go inside, hang our fake coats on the hooks by the door. I figure I’ll chill with him a while until Clark gets back from work. Lois is working late tonight, I think.  
  
Jon plops down on the couch. His eyes are huge and round, like a puppy’s. “Is Red Robin doing okay? Damian doesn’t like to talk about it.”  
  
“Oh.” I sit down next to him. He looks at me intently. “Well...he’s a bit better than before, yeah. But it’ll be a while before we go on any more adventures.” Frankly, I’m afraid we’ll _never_ go on any more adventures, but I don’t want to think about that, much less suggest the idea to Jon. I try for a smile. “Wanna watch some cartoons?”  
  
“Okay.” Jon cuddles up next to me, and I put an arm around him, turn on the TV with my telekinesis.  
  
Still, I can’t really focus on the cartoon animals dancing around on the screen. I guess I have to face the idea that Tim might be hanging up the cape for good. Besides, at the end of the day, that’s not a big deal. We can still chill outside of hero work, and I’ll always be able to talk to him since he knows the life and the secrets that come with it.  
  
It’s just that look of pity. When I talked to all those Leaguers last month, too many of them just sort of...looked at me sadly, like they knew some terrible truth I didn’t, and they were gonna have to break it to me or something. Most of them at least expressed their sympathies, but I didn’t go around asking for sympathy, and Tim didn’t do that, either. I wanted solutions, and all they gave me was the pity an adult gives a child who’s seen something he shouldn’t have had to. I guess compared to them, I’m still young, and younger still if you go by chronological age instead of biological age. But still, I’ve saved the world tons of times, even given my life for it, which is more than most of them can say. So why treat me like a kid?  
  
I guess maybe a part of me _is_ different, less of a kid, than I was last month. I agreed with Cyborg that there was no alternative safe enough to try, but that was before I’d watched Tim suffer for another month. It looks like he’s gonna be suffering for a lot longer, too, and with some kind of epilepsy diagnosis from Dr. Thompkins, that throws a wrench in the moving in together plan at least until they get that under control.  
  
So maybe I’m being dramatic— permanently underdeveloped teenage brain over here, as everyone likes to remind me— but I guess I have to admit that a part of my optimism’s died this past month. Is that what “growing up” is all about? If so, I’m not into it. Honestly, I don’t really get how Clark is still doing this, much less letting his...more fragile colleagues continue hero work. I know it’s a douche move, and probably freaky controlling too, but if I were in his place I’d be tempted to ban humans from hero work at all.  
  
Maybe Batman and Green Arrow and all the others have escaped anything too terrible so far, or if something terrible happened they were eventually able to reverse it and its effects, and of course they’ll _say_ it’s because they’re so great at their jobs. But Tim was great at his job, too. Sometimes no matter how prepared you are, shit happens, and sometimes that shit is freaking permanent. So I guess it’s good I’m _not_ Clark, because if I was, I might do something about that, even though it wouldn’t be fair. And I hate to think that maybe that’s the Luthor in me.  
  
“Conner?”  
  
“Huh? Oh, yeah, what’s up?” The cartoon we were watching is over, and the next episode is gonna start playing soon.  
  
Jon adjusts his position, nuzzles his head into my armpit, which is honestly not a good place to rub your hair, but okay. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Oh.” Cassie always says I get this intense look on my face when I’m thinking, so maybe Jon picked up on it. “Nothing, Jon. Just thinking, that’s all.”  
  
“Oh.” He’s quiet for a minute, and then he speaks again. “You can tell me, you know. But since you’re probably gonna say it’s grown-up stuff, you and Dad should talk.”  
  
“Uh...yeah…” I’m probably not gonna talk to Clark about this, because...reasons. But it’s sweet of Jon to suggest it. “Thanks, Jon.”  
  
Jon sighs. He floats up and sits on my shoulders, gives my ears a little tug like he used to when he was smaller. Before he could fly, I used to give him rides, and he’d hang on to my ears for balance. “Gramma says you’re stubborn as a mule. Didja know that, Conner?”  
  
I manage a smile. “Yeah. I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how people who read the original Young Justice (1998) comic would feel about my portrayal of Conner, Bart, Cassie, and Tim all together ^^; I was a bit put-off by the first issue of YJ (1998) for...uh...various reasons lol but I'll probably read it eventually. For now, my characterization was based much more on Teen Titans (2003), hope y'all don't mind!
> 
> Actually, having read a few issues of various titles with Conner in them from pre-infinite crisis, I feel like the way he was portrayed in TT (2003) was like really different?? Like in Superman/Batman he and Tim were constantly "playfully" insulting each other (to me it just seemed too mean to be joking even though it was clearly intended to be joking, if that makes sense??) and Conner was super horny and perverted :P I guess it's reasonable to assume after dying Conner might have started acting differently, but I never got those vibes from him in TT (2003) even before he died?? In TT (2003) he and Tim weren't mean to each other at all, and Conner wasn't so girl-crazy or arrogant. So I'm curious if anyone who's more knowledgable about Conner could enlighten me on anything Conner haha
> 
> Anywho, as always thanks for reading and please feel free to lemme know your thoughts! :D


	14. Jason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, folks~! School's started last week and I've been totally swamped in homework :") Hope y'all have been doing well at least! <3   
> And thanks for the random influx of kudoses I got this week? Idk what it was about but I appreciate it!! haha
> 
> Enjoy~!
> 
> (For context: Extensive reference to RHATO (2016) #25-7 again)

It’s my first holiday season here since I died.  
  
The Manor’s all decked out for Christmas, courtesy of Alfred. It’s the same reusable fake tree (I thought it was weird, but Alfred said it’s better for the environment)— probably like eight feet tall with that same light-up angel sitting on top. Back in the day, most of the ornaments matched, except for a few lame popsicle stick and macaroni ones that Dick made at school, and of course Alfred kept putting them up as though they looked decent or something. I only lived here for a couple Christmases, but I always avoided the tree in a wide berth— all that crystal, gold wire, frosted stained glass, and creamy white ceramic looked fragile, and I wasn’t about to trip or something and ruin the whole thing.  
  
Now the tree’s practically covered in homemade ornaments. Apparently Damian had an art project at school where he had to make ornaments out of photos of each family member. They look better than Dick’s ornaments, even if his weren’t old as balls and falling apart by now. Damian might be by far my most annoying sibling, but he’s at least good at art, I guess, even though I see he pointedly left me out. I wonder if a crowbar would be an appropriate Christmas gift for him, since last I checked he fucking lost his in my bed, and after tucking it in all nice and cozy, too. Nasty little sucker.  
  
Then again, maybe no one’s expecting a Christmas gift from the family screw-up. My stocking’s up with all the others by the fireplace— Tim says Alfred put it up every year I was gone— but I know if it was up to Bruce, I wouldn’t even be _around_ for the holidays. I’ve got no _illusions_ about that anymore.  
  
Still, I’ll stick it out for Tim, as long as he wants me around. We’re sitting in the living room now with Ace, watching Star Wars— one of the prequels, I forget which. I’ve always been a sucker for historical stuff; sci-fi was never my thing. Besides, I’ve been mostly watching Tim doze instead of the movie. The new seizure medication has apparently been messing up his sleep even more than the nightmares already were. He’s gained a little weight back, but even after over three months of recovery, he still looks like shit.  
  
He startles awake when he tilts to the side, so I move closer so he can lean on me. He doesn’t seem to notice, just resting his head on my shoulder and closing his eyes again. I’m still not sure if he remembers what happened between me and Bruce— some of his memories from the weeks before his kidnapping still haven’t come back, and we don’t know if they will. We’re still not asking too many questions in case he gets upset. A part of me hopes he doesn’t remember for a little longer, but the longer this goes on the more I’m afraid he’ll think I took advantage of him later, that I assumed forgiveness where none was deserved. Instead of telling him the truth, I pretended to be a good brother, or his friend, or...whatever I’m doing right now.  
  
Ace sighs loudly. He has his head in Tim’s lap, but he looks up at me knowingly. My mom used to say dogs were the best judges of character.  
  
I try to watch the movie. When the credits start rolling, I turn off the TV. Tim is still asleep, so I don’t move. I’m starting to drift off myself when I hear a voice.  
  
“What doing?”  
  
I jump a little, and Tim startles awake. I can’t help but be a little annoyed. “Geez, Cassandra…”  
  
“C-Cass?” Tim’s eyes are like saucers.  
  
I recognize the look. “It’s okay, she just surprised me, that’s all.” She’s probably the only one other than Batman himself who can successfully sneak up on me.  
  
“Oh.” He sags against the couch, manages a small smile. “Sneaky.”  
  
“Sorry,” Cassandra says. She sits on Tim’s other side, pats his knee. Ace lifts his head to get pets from Cassandra, who rubs his ears.  
  
“We were watching a movie,” I say.  
  
She nods, looks at Tim. “Kate.” Her lip curls in disgust.  
  
“Oh.” Tim reaches for his wheelchair, and I help him get up from the couch and into the chair. They got him one that he can control with a joystick. His mouth is set in a straight line.  
  
“Hey, should you really be talking business, yet?” I ask.  
  
“I’m fine,” Tim says, offering me a tired smile. “I had a nice nap.”  
  
“Right…” I turn to Cassandra after he leaves. “What did Kate want?”  
  
Cassandra shrugs, still looking sour. I’m guessing she still hasn’t made her peace with Batwoman, after Kate shot and killed Cassandra’s friend. Albeit a very dangerous and possibly unstable friend, but I guess if we just killed everyone who was dangerous and possibly unstable there’d barely be anyone left in Gotham. None of _us_ would still be alive, that’s for sure.  
  
“Jason.”  
  
I jump again. Bruce is standing in the doorway to the living room. Fuck him. “You guys are just gloating that you can sneak up on me, aren’t you?”  
  
“Not sneaking,” Cassandra says, but I ignore her.  
  
“Everything’s going well?” Bruce asks.  
  
I can’t believe he’s got the nerve to ask _me_. If he wants to know if I’m mistreating Tim, or if any of my nasty personality is rubbing off on him, he can ask any of his real sons. He’s just throwing his weight around, letting me know he’s watching me. I cross my arms. “If you want to check on Tim, why don’t you just ask him yourself?”  
  
Bruce hesitates, so I go on. “Or go yell at Kate instead. She’s the one making him talk business already.” I pretend to think for a moment. “Unless you’re the one who approved that, when he should be resting, maybe seeing a shrink.”  
  
“I’m not...yelling at you, Jason.” His voice is weirdly soft.  
  
I raise an eyebrow. This sad old man act has gotta be a joke. It’s a pretty pathetic attempt to get me to let my guard down. “No? Cool. Wasn’t really in the mood to listen.”  
  
Besides, he’s already said everything that needed to be said between us. I might have hugged him because I needed to hug _someone_ after hearing about Tim’s presumed death, but the more I think about it, the more disgusted I am with myself for being so weak that I actually went to him. If he thinks there’s any reason other than Tim that I’m doing what he wants right now, that that hug meant anything to me other than a brief physical comfort, then he’s dreaming.  
  
He looks me up and down before finally leaving. Can’t say I’m not relieved. Without Dick or Babs to back me up, I might get kicked out of here at any moment, and kicked out of Gotham as a whole the next.  
  
“Talk,” Cassandra says.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Talk.”  
  
“I’m _not_ talking to Bruce.” That’s for sure.  
  
“No.” Cassandra points after Tim.  
  
“What do you mean? With Tim? About what?”  
  
Cassandra points at me.  
  
I sigh. I guess there’s no point hiding from a woman who can basically read my thoughts in my body language. I wonder if wearing looser clothes will help. “I don’t want to upset him.”  
  
She just looks at me for a while. I don’t like how she sees right through me. “Hurt. You.”  
  
I don’t know what she’s talking about, but I have a feeling I don’t want to. She has a way of cutting right to the truth of things that’s probably not good for me or my health. I feel her eyes watching me as I walk away.  
  
Maybe she’s right, though. If I don’t say anything now, I might lose Tim forever. He forgave Kate for Clayface, because she’d been trying to protect Cassandra, but I don’t know how he’ll feel about me and Penguin. He might hate me and tell me to go. Or maybe he already remembers and forgave me, and I’m worrying over nothing.  
  
I find Tim with Kate in the dining room. They’re talking about some big plan he had in motion before he got kidnapped, but I don’t try to understand it. They both look at me when I stand in the doorway.  
  
“Hey. I’m heading out, so I thought I’d say bye.”  
  
“Oh. Okay.” Tim raises his eyebrows hopefully. Suddenly, despite the scars on either side of his mouth, he looks like a kid. “See you later, then?”  
  
“Yeah. I’ll bring some more books over.” I wave and take my leave. I should talk to Tim soon about Penguin. I guess I will...maybe after the holidays. Or will that make it worse, ruin things even more than I already have? I don’t know.  
  
After almost half an hour of riding aimlessly on my motorcycle, I find myself in Crime Alley, my fist rhythmically connecting with a pimp’s face. I won’t kill him, can’t if I don’t want Batman rhythmically punching _my_ face, but I can give him a good enough beat-down that he won’t ever look in a mirror again without remembering tonight.  
  
“Blowing off steam?”  
  
I throw the pimp to the side without bothering to look, shake some of the blood off my fist. No wonder I felt like I was being watched. “Nightwing. Nothing interesting in Bludhaven?”  
  
He lands next to me with unnecessary gracefulness. “You know I’ve been hanging around Gotham lately.” I didn’t know, actually, but I don’t correct him. “Thought I’d try and get the drop on a trafficking ring. You kinda demolished my guy.”  
  
“Oh. My bad.” Ordinarily I might be able to give him a different lead to chase, but I’ve been out of touch with the happenings in Gotham’s underworld.  
  
Dick puts his hands on his hips, looks down at the guy, who’s unconscious and bleeding from his face holes. “You like, _really_ demolished him. Was that necessary?”  
  
I’m about tired of the Golden Squad and their bullshit. “He’s a fucking _pimp_ , Nightwing. He deserves it.”  
  
He looks at me, and I can’t see his eyes through the mask, but I don’t have to.  
  
“Hood…”  
  
“I’m kinda busy, actually, so if you don’t have anything _quick_ to say, I’ll see you later.” I can tell by the way my back tingles that he’s giving me his puppy-dog eyes, like I hurt his feelings or something. Stupid Dick. I sigh. “Or I guess you can...tag along or something.”  
  
His arm is around my shoulders in an instant. I grumble and shove him off, but he just smirks and follows me. We take out a few low-level drug dealers and those of their customers who pull guns, knives, or any other weapons. I don’t wanna beat on addicts unless they’re tryna beat on me, though Officer Grayson tends to see them as no better than the dealers. That’s probably why he gets along so well with Bruce.  
  
I stomp out the last guy. “A’ight, I’m calling it a night.”  
  
“Jay, can we talk?”  
  
_There_ it is, what he’s been sitting on for the past couple hours. I climb out the window, jump down to the ground. He joins me a second later, doing an unnecessary flip in the process.  
  
“‘Bout what?”  
  
“You know, the family.”  
  
The family Bruce more or less kicked me out of? Not my problem, and _definitely_ not interested in talking to Dick about it. But I know it’ll hurt his feelings if I say that. I’m guessing that all he knows is I shot Penguin, and Batman kicked me out of Gotham. Batman was probably sparse on the details, as usual. And like icing on the cake, Penguin didn’t even have the decency to fucking _die_. You think you’ve seen it all, and then you shoot a guy right in his damned bulletproof monocle. I hear he at least lost the eye, but still.  
  
We’re on the roof of the apartment building where I’m living for now. I’ll leave as soon as Tim’s recovered, but until then, I’m staying in Gotham whether Buttman likes it or not.  
  
“Come on, Jay…” Dick spread his hands in a pleading gesture. “This is your chance to make up with Bruce!”  
  
Of _course_ this is what he wants. He still doesn’t even know why I decided to shoot Penguin, and he doesn’t even bother to ask. He probably just thinks I’m homicidal as usual, like me randomly snapping after months of not killing _and_ trying to kill an A-lister on live television isn’t, you know, a _little_ worth questioning.  
  
“I’m _not_ making up with Bruce. There’s no point.”  
  
Dick frowns. “Remember what you said, back when Bruce put Kate on trial for Clayface? You said being part of the family was important to you. Remember?”  
  
I _did_ say that. But I didn’t know Bruce or myself well enough back then. “Yeah, and Kate said if he forgave her, then he can forgive me, too. And maybe he can. He can do whatever the hell he wants. Problem is, I don’t really care anymore.”  
  
I take my mask off, only leaving the domino. “I _do_ regret trying to kill Penguin, really. He screwed my dad over a long time ago and I thought I’d get some revenge, but honestly I don’t even know why I cared. If I’m gonna kill Penguin, I should do it because of what he’s done to hundreds of people, not just because it was personal.” It’s not like he’s the Joker or anything.  
  
In fact, lately I’ve been wondering why I’d been so willing to throw everything I thought I had with Bruce away as soon as Willis Todd was involved. I spent my childhood afraid of my dad and wishing he was dead, and then when it finally happens, I’m suddenly mad? Why was getting revenge for a dead man I hated worth more than what I had with the Bats? Am I just that screwed up of a person?  
  
“Jay…” Dick tries to touch my shoulder, but I move away, so he pulls his hand back. “Look, I know you and Bruce have had your differences, but maybe you can come up with a compromise. No killing while you’re in Gotham, but you can stay, for example.”  
  
“I’m here for Tim, not any of the rest of you.”  
  
“And the fact that you’re sticking around for Tim tells me that family is still important to you. Don’t you think Tim wants you around more?”  
  
“Don’t try to guilt-trip me, Dick. I have no _idea_ what Tim wants from me, okay? I don’t even know if he remembers what I did, so if he does all of a sudden and wants me to leave, then I’m out. If he wants me around, which it seems like he does at the moment, then I’m in. Get it?”  
  
“No, not really.” Dick crosses his arms. “Tim looks up to you, Jay. That’s not gonna change just because you made another mistake. I’m glad you want to be a big brother to him, but how can you be a brother to Tim and not a son to Bruce?”  
  
“Bruce is _not_ my dad, Dick.” I’m talking through gritted teeth. I didn’t know I was still this angry about it. “He doesn’t want to be. So don’t give me that bullshit.”  
  
Dick tilts his head to one side. “Who said he didn’t want to be?”  
  
“Oh my God, _he did!_ ” I stomp a boot down. I hope I woke the neighbors. “ _He_ said it! Said I _betrayed him_!” That he never should have trusted me. Never should have _believed_ in me. “Leaving Gotham was supposed to be _my_ choice, but _for the love of God, I forced his hand!_ ”  
  
He’d told me who I was, for years, only to turn around and reveal he’d been lying, humoring me, manipulating me. Just trying to keep me in check so he wouldn’t have too much trouble with me when I inevitably went bad.  
  
“Jay…” The pity in Dick’s voice makes me want to punch him. “He...he’d just lost Selina, got dumped at the altar.” Guilt settles in my gut like lead. I didn’t know that. “He was depressed, angry, so he said things he didn’t mean...He lost his temper, and it wasn’t just with you. It was Freeze, Riddler—”  
  
The _fuck_? “So he grouped me in with _them_!” I turn away from Dick, towards the door that leads inside the building. “Do I act like a fucking supervillain?”  
  
I miss Artemis and Bizarro. I wish I knew where they were, so much it aches, but even Kori’s Tamaranean ship couldn’t locate them. They’re strong, so I know they’ll find their way home, but I miss them. I miss Roy, but I’m not going to burden him with my shit while he’s in rehab. “Maybe you wouldn’t understand, Golden Boy, but some of us just can’t be what Bruce wants. We can’t all be people he’d be proud of.”  
  
“You _can_ , Little Wing…” It’s been a while since he called me that. “You know Bruce has a thick skull. He doesn’t know everything. But _I_ know you can overcome this.”  
  
As he speaks, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I don’t know how I know, but— I dive. Slam into Dick. A bullet whizzes past his head. The bullet slams into the concrete of the roof with a _crack_! A couple strands of his hair drift in the sudden breeze.  
  
_Shit._  
  
I look in the direction it came from— a window across the street, higher elevation than we are. There’s a big man I can’t recognize sitting behind a tripod. He has a really nice sniper rifle. We’re sitting ducks. “Come on!” I drag Dick inside the building, through the rooftop door I always make sure is unlocked.  
  
I only realize there’s blood everywhere a moment later. “Dick! Dick!” Dick’s head lolls. It looks like the bullet might’ve hit his neck, but it’s too dark in the crappy stairwell for me to see clearly.  
  
“Shit!” I rip off my jacket and try to staunch the bleeding, throw Dick over my shoulder, and careen down the stairs. Gotta get to my motorcycle, make it to the hospital. I jam my finger in my ear. “Batgirl! Batgirl, pick up, dammit!”  
  
“Hood? What’s wrong?”  
  
“It’s Dick! He’s been shot in the neck, bleeding a lot, shooter’s still at large.”  
  
She curses. I can tell she’s trying to stay calm. “Get him to a hospital. I’m coming to your location.”  
  
“Don’t engage, Batgirl. I think he’s an assassin; he’s good. Just help me with Di— Nightwing!”  
  
“Got it.”  
  
The next fifteen minutes or so are a blur, but I manage to admit Dick to an emergency room, unfortunately as Nightwing instead of Dick Grayson. I’m hoping that the threat of Red Hood and his guns is enough to keep these doctors quiet. Besides, it’s not like Dick is famous or anything— they had to take the mask off to check his vitals properly, but that doesn’t mean they’ll recognize him. I’ll get Babs to wipe the footage off the security cameras later.  
  
I’m standing in front of the door to his room, making sure no one gets in or out without me knowing. I’ve already made sure the room has no window.  
  
“Hood?” Babs’ voice on my comm. “You’re inside, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” I reply. “Come in your suit, though. I couldn’t get Nightwing’s suit off quickly enough, so he’s still wearing it.”  
  
She sucks in her breath sharply. “Right, got it.”  
  
She joins me standing guard a few minutes later. A doctor and several nurses go in with some surgery tools. I give Babs what they’ve given me so far— the injury is mostly on the side of his neck, apparently the kevlar weave in the turtleneck of his suit helped, but it wasn’t enough to protect him completely. We’ll know more after the surgery.  
  
“Did you call Batman yet?” I ask Babs.  
  
She chews her lip. “Yeah, he wants every update. He’s coming as soon as possible without drawing attention.”  
  
Should I leave, then? No, I need to stay. I’m technically a witness, even if I didn’t actually see much. “Shit. If I was just a little faster…”  
  
“Hood.” Babs gets stern. “Not your fault.”  
  
“I know, I know.”  
  
We’re quiet for a moment before Babs speaks again. “So, who did it?”  
  
“I have no idea,” I say, crossing my arms. “He was a sniper. Big guy. Shaved head. I couldn’t see much detail. I’m guessing Nightwing got himself into some deep shit in Bludhaven or something.”  
  
“Yeah…” Babs bites her lip. “I don’t keep up with his cases. He’s the only one who’d know...”  
  
“Right…”  
  
We’re pretty restless, waiting outside the door, but after what feels like hours, the doctors finally finish. Babs gets the info from the head doctor, a small man probably in his fifties. Apparently they expect a full recovery with a couple months of rest and physical therapy. The bullet tore some muscles on the side of his neck, but luckily, it missed any super important arteries and nerves, and the surgery had been highly successful. Thank God.  
  
“Hey, no one hears about this, right?” I say to the doctor, casually resting a hand on my gun holster.  
  
His eyes flick down to my gun. “O-of course not, sir.”  
  
“Good. Thanks, Doc.” I feel a little bad for scaring him, but the press _can’t_ hear about Nightwing getting shot. I pat him awkwardly on the shoulder, and he flinches. “I’ll drop some money by your house soon for your trouble, ‘kay?”  
The doctor nods mutely and scurries away after that.  
  
I’ll have to ask Dr. T how much an operation like this usually costs, and then slap a couple extra grand on there for his silence; I have a few ideas as to where I wanna get the money from.  
  
Babs stands on her tip-toes to look through the window on the door. Dick is still anesthetized, wearing a neck brace with a tube sticking out of his mouth. Someone had the decency to slap the mask back on over his eyes, though it’s upside-down.  
  
Babs pauses, as though she’s getting a message through her comm. “Batman wants us to move him.”  
  
“Is that, you know, _safe_?”  
  
Babs pauses. “Safer than waiting around for the assassin to come back. I’ll bring a change of clothes for all of us, then stay behind to cover our digital tracks. You stay here and stand guard. We shouldn’t move until he at least regains consciousness.”  
  
“Got it.” I doubt the assassin would dare come, though, especially when he hasn’t already. Too many witnesses. Plus, if he was resorting to sniping, he’s probably not as good at hand-to-hand. At least, I hope not. I slip into Dick’s room.  
  
Slowly, he wakes up, though he’s a little groggy still. He smiles at me as best he can around the tube down his throat and slowly winks. I scoff at him. “Jackass. You almost got killed, you know.”  
  
He twitches his nose in response, moves his eyebrows vigorously. He wants me to flip the mask the right way. I roll my eyes even though he can’t see them and oblige. “Batgirl’s on the way with civvies. We’ll change and get you somewhere safer.”  
  
Dick doesn’t lift his arm, but moves his hand into a loose thumbs-up. He’s still annoyingly cheery even after almost dying. Maybe it’s the painkillers making him loopy.  
  
Twenty minutes later, Babs shows up with the clothes, including big dark sunglasses that will hide our eyes just as well as a domino. I change while she explains the plan— I’m gonna wheel Dick out with a blanket wrapped around him to hide his costume, and we take the car she drove to the hospital over to Dr. Thompkins’. From there, Bruce will figure something out. He, Kate, Cassandra, Stephanie, Duke, and Jean-Paul will be tailing us from the shadows to make sure Dick is safe. Babs patches my comm into the channel with everyone else. I hear her voice in double.  
  
“Everyone in position?”  
  
“Affirmative,” Kate replies.  
  
“Alright, Nightwing and Hood are headed out, then.” She takes Dick’s mask off, disconnects his IV, and pulls the tube out from his throat.  
  
He coughs and grins sleepily, his voice raspy. “Some pull-out...!”  
  
I’m about to complain when Babs beats me to it. “You’re going to make my eyes fall out, they’re rolling so hard. Now come on, Jay, help me get him into the wheelchair.”  
  
The trip to Dr. Thompkins’ goes without incident. Maybe the assassin thought he killed Dick already, or maybe he went home to try again another day. Or maybe, he’s waiting for the right moment to strike again. The sun’s already rising, though. If I were him, I’d wait for night.  
  
Batman’s waiting inside the clinic’s secret room when I wheel Dick in. Dr. Thompkins is there, too. Bruce steps forward, reaching out to Dick but also not wanting to touch him in case it hurts him. “Dick, are you…?”  
  
“I’m good, Bruce,” Dick rasps. Talking seems to hurt, though.  
  
“I’ll have another look at him, Bruce, but from what Barbara sent me, he seems stable,” Dr. Thompkins says. She pats the bed, and I carefully lift Dick onto it. “Let’s just get him on some fluids, and plenty of rest, hm?”  
  
The others show up, then— Cassandra, Stephanie, Duke, and Kate come inside, but Jean-Paul apparently has other business. It’s too dark with the sunglasses to see inside the clinic, but when I take them off I realize I’m the only one besides Dr. Thompkins without a mask. I consider putting them back on until the kids pull their masks off and go over to check on Dick.  
  
Bruce’s voice is a growl, and he uses his bulk to stand over me as much as he can— intimidation. It makes my heart skip a beat, and not in a nice fluffy way. “What happened?”  
  
I give the address, explain what I can, and the man I saw. I can’t help a frustrated huff at the end— I was planning to cooperate all along, so the show of force is honestly unnecessary.  
  
“Hmph.” Bruce finally turns away from me.  
  
Kate puts a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “Bruce, let _me_ look into it.”  
  
“No. Dick could have died tonight. If Jason had been _any_ slower, he would have.” He narrows his eyes. “This assassin is _mine_.” With a whirl of his cape, Batman’s gone. Kind of selfish, to call dibs on the assassin, but I’m staying out of his way, for now at least.  
  
“Jay…” Dick calls hoarsely.  
  
I walk over to the bed. “Don’t talk, Idiot. You’re gonna pull something.”  
  
He grins at me again, his eyes closing with exhaustion. “Thanks, Little Wing…”  
  
I hesitate, then pat his hand awkwardly. “Bro, I told you to shut up.”  
  
He seems to have fallen asleep. Cassandra, Duke, and Stephanie stick around a while, and then they leave with Kate, presumably to work a different case. Dr. Thompkins goes to work with some other patients. So I’m alone with Dick for a bit.  
  
He’s asleep, so thankfully I don’t have to talk to him or anything. Knowing Dick, he’s probably going to wake up talking about how I should spend more time with the family and all that crap. Maybe I ought to be more open to making up with Bruce. Still, I wish Dick wouldn’t try so hard to make everything perfect with the family. I don’t want to disappoint him— he’s my big brother, after all— but I guess at the end of the day I’m not totally sure I know _how_ to do the whole ‘family’ thing. Bruce isn’t exactly giving me any _pointers_. Apparently he never thought I was capable of it, even before I died. I guess I used to think the Joker was the one who really ruined my life— ruined _me_ — but...now that the clown’s really gone, maybe I’m seeing things clearly for the first time. And maybe the ugly truth is he did me a _favor_.  
  
I glance at Dick again. Despite the neck brace squeezing his face a little, he looks peaceful. To think he could have died…It sends a shiver down my spine, and back up again. I don’t even want to think about all the ways we would have fallen apart if, on top of all the other shit we’re swimming in, we’d lost _Dick_...  
I stand, adjust the blanket around his shoulders. When I leave the clinic, it’s drizzling a little, the sky clouded over in cool gray. I pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, shove my hands in my pockets. I’ll take the bus to Bludhaven.  
Time to scope out Dick’s place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason's chapters are always so full of cognitive distortions, poor bub :"")  
> While I'm personally not at all a fan of the New-52 retcon that the Joker orchestrated his entire past (too far-fetched in my opinion for it to be actually be true; it'd be passable if it was a lie on the Joker's part, but apparently it's not :P), I was interested in the direction Scott Lobdell pushed Jason's backstory/psychological makeup in the Rebirth RHATO. There were definitely a lot of loose ends and unexplored potential for us fanfic writers to fill in haha
> 
> Also, my apologies about the incorrect neck anatomy/intubation removal :"") For all my searching I could not find anything on how to actually remove intubation?? Weird :P My goal with this was that I wanted to reference the events leading up to the horror of the Ric Grayson arc without actually taking us there (that would require a fix-it fic I am frankly not capable of lmao), and I felt a head shot would be too likely to lead to death or at least severe TBI, despite DC apparently disagreeing with me lol so I hope this compromise works out okay ^^;
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading and please feel free to lemme know your thoughts! :D <3


	15. Tim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo folks! Hope you've been doing well!  
> I've been really busy with school lately (and my little sister who does all my beta reading is also very busy) so I've decided to switch to an every-other-week update schedule. :"0 Thanks for your patience!! <3

Damian’s in my room again. He’s scrutinizing everything, like my room is an exhibit or something, and you can tell by the sour tilt of his stupid mouth that he’s judging me for things no one else would consider a problem. Little jerk.  
  
“You are such a slob, Drake.” He starts rearranging the books on my shelves without asking, even though Babs helped me organize it according to the Dewey Decimal System years ago. I just didn’t bother labelling anything, because _I’m_ supposed to be the only one who touches it.  
  
I would roll my eyes, but I’m a little dizzy and I don’t want to make it worse. Instead, I just insert extra annoyance into my voice. “I didn’t _ask_ you to clean for me, Damian.”  
  
“And I didn’t _ask_ you to _exist_ , yet, here you are.”  
  
_Oh my god._ I wish I could punch him sometimes. Then again, I _have_ several times, and it was never as satisfying as I wish it’d been. Plus, I always get in trouble over it, because I’m supposed to be the mature older brother. And yet, the stupid brat tried to murder me multiple times and barely got a slap on the wrist, _and_ he got to steal my identity, basically a reward. What’s with that?  
  
Wait, no. All that’s passed, and it doesn’t matter anymore. You’re skewing the facts, Junior. That’s not what happened, and you know it.  
  
_So shut the fuck up._  
  
After all, he can’t steal an identity that was never mine in the first place.  
  
Damian sits on the floor on the far side of the room and opens his tablet, presumably working cases. I can’t help a twinge of envy. I tried to work on cases earlier and only ended up with a massive headache and awful nerve pain in my arms from trying to type. Damian’s just rubbing it in, because he can. That’s what he does.  
  
I sigh and roll onto my side, so I don’t have to look at him. I’m supposed to try to sleep better, but I can’t seem to get into a pattern of it. The dreams don’t really help, especially when I’m not even sure if they’re dreams or memories. Those weeks with Daddy are filtered through a drug-induced haze. I “remember” him saying things he couldn’t possibly know, about my life before the mask, things I’ve never admitted to anyone out loud, not even Kon. Maybe, under the influence of drugs, I blabbered to him earlier and forgot, and he’d merely been repeating things I’d told him. Or maybe he hadn’t been talking to me at all, and my subconscious fabricated all the vicious things he’d said to me. Ugly truths I don’t want to face. I don’t even want to admit to myself that I thought those terrible, terrible things, much less someone else. If they knew, they’d hate me.  
  
_So you have nothing to lose. Shut_ up, _Junior._  
  
Something catches fire in my chest. God, I _hate_ Damian. “Can’t you just leave me alone?” I hate how whiny my voice sounds.  
  
“Tt. I wish I _could_ ,” Damian says. They’re forcing him to watch me again tonight because I had another seizure; we have to adjust the dosage on my meds. “But on account of your endless ailments, I must stay.”  
  
I’m about to say something biting, but I manage to turn it into a wordless grumble before it leaves my mouth. I’m being unreasonable again. He’s here to keep an eye on me, that’s all. It’s not his fault; if there’s anyone I should be mad at, it’s...no, I shouldn’t be mad at anyone. This isn’t anyone’s fault but mine.  
  
I close my eyes, but I hear him laughing and I need to open them again. I wish I could just knock myself out. I’m so damn tired, but it feels like hours before I fall asleep.  
  
_A note for me on the table, written in Mom’s messy, careless scrawl. The sheet of notebook paper was torn roughly from the steno pad she keeps in her purse, the perforation completely ignored. Instead, the top of the page is a jagged line swooping too far down, like a piece of the note is missing.  
  
Dear Tim, We decided to get a headstart and fly out a little early. We’ll try to call this weekend. Be good. Love, Mom and Dad.  
  
Be good. Love, Mom and Dad.  
  
They never call me when they say they will. I can do whatever I want, a kid completely unsupervised in the mansion, with a debit card for any purchases I need or even just want. But I never do anything but behave. I go to school, do my homework, get the grades that will please them, be the son they deserve.  
  
Until Robin. Then all I do is lie. And lie. And lie. And  
  
You don’t have to lie to_ me, _sonny-boy! I know it’s not that pretty!  
  
No, it never is, is it? The truth is I was born this way. I do so much behind their backs. I spend my childhood running around the streets at night, following, photographing the ghosts. They never once ask about it. I don’t think they even know that every night I’m out, gone, waning with the moon. Disappearing. But what they don’t know won’t hurt them, right? Right? Right?  
  
Hence, the lies. The lies. The lies. The  
  
I’m running along the rooftops, the biting cold air in my face, freezing solid in my lungs. The impact of my feet on the concrete sends vibrations up my legs, into my head, my vision shakes at the edges. I need to run faster, faster, faster, or else it’ll get me, it’ll snap me up and chew me up and swallow me down and then it will forget me—  
  
No father ever understood his son like I do you! You and me, we’re a pair! We’re so wonderfully, wonderfully_ twisted _! Father and son! Joker and Junior!  
  
I leap, and suddenly there’s no more rooftop to land on. I reach for my grapple, but I don’t have hands.  
  
Batman and Robin!_  
  
I wake up laughing. Nothing exists except me and Junior and that laugh that haunts me but is coming out of my own mouth, stretching my trachea to bursting, expanding in my throat, choking me. I laugh until my lungs are burning, I can’t breathe—  
  
I roll out of bed and grab the bucket just in time to puke my guts out. I’m shaking and sweating and sobbing and God, I _hate_ this—  
  
“Drake?!”  
  
_Robin._  
  
I’m still laughing and coughing and crying, more bile comes up. I want to take deep breaths, but they’re more like gasps. Damian hands me a glass of water, and I gulp down a mouthful too fast, my stomach twists and it comes back up. I try again, this time slowly. I realize that Damian is holding the glass with me. I’m shaking too much to hold it by myself. I want to go home. I want to die.  
  
“You had a nightmare?”  
  
_No shit._ “I…” I swallow back the lingering nausea. My head is throbbing, pounding like a hammer with my racing heart. My chest is on fire. I might pass out. “I’m…fine...”  
  
“Tt.” Damian puts the cup back on the nightstand. He crouches next to me while I’m still bent over the bucket, breathing hard. It hurts too much to move away. “The Joker is dead. There is no point in being afraid.”  
  
I feel like I’m on fire, molten lava scorching through my veins, pouring out of my mouth. “ _Fuck. You._ ”  
  
He scoffs. “Fine. You refuse to be logical. Suffer, then.”  
  
_Face the facts, Junior! He never loved you like he loves his boy, never will! And guess who knows it, too…?_  
  
“Sh-shut up!” My voice is hoarse, burning. I glare at Damian. I wish he would melt. “You—you’re _happy_ this happened to me, aren’t you?!”  
  
His eyes widen. “ _What?_ ”  
  
“You’re enjoying this, admit it!” My throat is raw with acid, but I scream anyway. I hope it tears open. “You’ve wanted me dead since the day we met, but now you get something even _better_ , don’t you!”  
  
“That— that was a long time ago!”  
  
“Maybe…” The magma bubbles in my gut. The pressure in my head is nearly unbearable, I hope it bursts like an overinflated balloon. “But you’re still the same snobby, _selfish_ —”  
  
“You’re insane!” Damian sneers. His voice jabs like a knife. “If you really can’t see that I’ve changed, then it’s no wonder Father and Richard chose _me_ over _you_!” He runs out and slams the door.  
  
I’m alone.  
  
_You thought you were so high-and-mighty, didn’t you? But admit it, my boy, that hate runs through your core, just like it does in mine…_  
  
He’s right. I deserve this. I’m just a filthy liar, a betrayer, a pretender. The lava cools, solidifies in my arteries, obsidian in my capillaries, frozen solid. I weigh a million pounds.  
  
I deserve this.  
  
~~~  
  
The pain wakes me up. There’s a prick in the crook of my arm, I can’t move, my wrists and ankles are bound. My ribcage must have shrunk while I was asleep, I can’t inhale more than a mouthful of air. The electricity scorches through my body, muscles seizing and straining at my restraints, Daddy’s laughing at me.  
  
_Word of advice, Junior, my boy! You have to learn to laugh at the pain! That’s the only way to get through life, you know!_  
  
I manage a small giggle, but the burning in my arms and legs is too much, like he’s pumping my veins full of molten metal. A thin wheeze escapes.  
  
Vaguely, I hear the floor creak outside my door, see a shadow standing outside it a moment. I’m at the Manor, thank God, I’m at the Manor, not with _him_...  
  
Finally, the door opens, light and a little squeaky.  
  
“Alfred...?” I croak. My limbs are on fire, the pain’s shooting into my back and up into my head like another electric current, please, someone help me.  
  
“Uh, hey, Tim, it’s Duke.”  
  
_No, no, go away,_ I’m about to tell him he can leave, I’m fine, but when I open my mouth, all that comes out is a gasp.  
  
Duke comes in, stands by the foot of my bed. “You okay? Does something hurt?”  
  
_Yes yes yes yes_ “No, I’m f-fine, you can— ah!” The fire’s spreading into my chest, burning up my oxygen.  
  
_Laugh at the pain! Laugh!_  
  
“W-want me to grab you some painkillers?”  
  
I can’t answer except in a strained chuckle, so he grabs the pills off my dresser anyway. I manage to swallow two capsules, but it’s still twenty minutes before they kick in. I can feel the laughter bubbling in my chest like boiling water, but I don’t want to laugh in front of Duke, so I try my best to hold it in. Besides, I think the painkillers are working, now— the stabbing electric pain is gone, replaced by the familiar pins-and-needles in my limbs. My shirt is damp with sweat. There’s pressure in my sinuses from crying.  
  
My hand shakes when I bring it up to wipe the tears. “S-sorry, Duke, you can…”  
  
“I’m not leaving you, dude.” Duke sits in the desk chair, watching me worriedly. “What happened?”  
  
With the pain lessened, it’s easier to realistically guess where it came from. “Neuropathic pain, I think…” It’s flared up before, but never this bad. Maybe it’s because I strained myself trying to work cases yesterday. Then again, I’m not sure how much of it was imagined because of the simultaneous flashback, the flashback the pain triggered, or maybe it was the other way around. I hate my brain these days, useless wrinkly blob, and my body’s no better. I wish it would just _listen to me._  
  
“That’s from nerve damage, right?” Duke frowns. “You coulda yelled for me, you know. I was right in the next room.”  
  
Then he came in because he heard me crying. _Great job making things harder for everyone. Business as usual for you, you fucking idiot._ I laugh.  
  
“Um…”  
  
“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t...mean to…” I swallow, fighting a smile. “Where’s Alfred?”  
  
“Oh, he went to pick Damian up from detention.”  
  
“W-...why is he in detention?”  
  
Duke manages a smirk. “He kept correcting his history teacher and she got mad.”  
  
“Oh.” Sounds like Damian.  
  
Duke studies me for a moment, eyeing me like I’m some kind of unpredictable animal. I guess it’s fair, even if it makes my skin crawl. “Well...alright...If you need anything, though, just lemme know. I’ll go grab my math homework and sit here ‘til Alfred gets back, okay?”  
  
“Okay…” If I press him to leave too hard he might think I don’t like him anymore or something. Besides, we don’t really want to be alone, right? “Thanks, Duke...”  
  
He smiles thinly and leaves to get his stuff.  
  
I close my eyes. My body still hurts, and my chest is still sore from last night’s anxiety attack, but I can ignore it at this level. I don’t want a nap, but maybe I should so that I don’t do anything else to Duke. He doesn’t deserve this. I want to be on my best behavior; I always plan to when it’s Duke staying with me, but I can’t control myself, stupid, useless, weak—  
  
“Hey, Tim?”  
  
I startle a little. Duke’s back, already sitting at my desk.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Actually, if you’re feeling up to it, do you think you could gimme a hand with this?”  
  
I pounce on the opportunity. “Yeah, sure. What is it?” Sitting up makes my head spin a little, but I just drink some water from my bedside table, through the green swirly straw Steph brought, instead of risking lifting the cup right now.  
  
Duke rolls the chair so he’s next to me and shows me the problem— at first glance, looks like pre-calculus or trig. “Don’t tell anyone, but I kiiiiinda fell asleep in class and missed the explanation.”  
  
I can’t write right now, but I talk Duke through the problem. He gets it easily after the first example; he’s smart, even if math isn’t his favorite subject. Apparently, he’s more of an English person; I’ve heard from Alfred that he writes great poetry, which coming from Alfred is a pretty big deal. Duke’s never shown me any of it, but I guess I probably wouldn’t understand it anyway.  
  
After a couple more problems, he thanks me and goes back over to the desk. As I lay down again, I wonder if he actually needed any help or if he was just being nice, giving me a chance to feel helpful. Either way, I guess the conversation put both of us more at ease with each other.  
  
“Duke…?”  
  
“What’s up?”  
  
I’m not sure what I was going to say, but even if it’s silly and dumb, it’s nice to know he’s there. “Oh...Nothing.”  
  
~~~  
  
“Tim! It’s so good to see you!” Dana Winters-Drake hugs me gingerly, careful not to hurt me.  
  
I try to smile, but I know it looks wrong from the uncomfortable gleam in Dana’s eye. I haven’t seen her in over a year, been too busy. “Likewise. I’m glad you’re doing better, Dana.”  
  
She’s been in Bludhaven receiving psychiatric care after her mental breakdown, caused by Dad’s murder. She looks at me with a sad little smile. “I wish we were reuniting under better circumstances…”  
  
Yeah, well, the whole _kidnapped-and-tortured_ deal usually doesn’t leave you looking any better than shit. But she’s not wrong, I suppose, so I can hardly get mad at her. The last thing I want to do is get mad at Dana, after everything she’s been through. I’m amazed she even wanted to see me, considering I killed Dad.  
  
Wait. What? Is that right? Yes, if I’d never become Robin, her husband wouldn’t have been targeted. So I didn’t throw a boomerang into his chest, but it is my fault, in some way. I could have retired when he caught me, hung up the cape for good, but I had to get involved again. That led to the bullseye on his back, and now he’s gone.  
  
But I’m still here. Dana is still here. We’re staring at each other. She’s probably horrified by me. She’d been with Dad on protesting the Robin gig, once she’d found out. And now she can say _I told you so. You ruined our lives._ She looks at me like one of us is made of glass, and I’m not sure who.  
  
“Well,” she smiles thinly. “Shall we get started?”  
  
The physical therapy is frustrating. I can’t do the most basic things— pick up a paperclip, squeeze a stress ball, and if I can’t even do those it’ll be a _long_ time before I can start relearning how to fucking _walk_. I can feel the irritation building in my gut. She knows I have a brain injury, is used to dealing with excitable patients with short tempers, but I don’t want to be one of them. Maybe asking Dana to do this was a bad idea. I don’t want to hurt her again.  
  
Then again, I don’t know how we would have explained to a random physical therapist why Timothy Drake-Wayne was starved and tortured, with his skin haphazardly bleached and a permanent grin carved into his face. Not to mention the suspicious timing, that Da— _no. The Joker. Not Daddy. If you ever call him that again, I swear I will kill you._  
  
“Tim? Tim!”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
Dana is looking at me worriedly. “You here?”  
  
“Yeah, sorry, I’m here,” I say.  
  
“Okay, good. Let me know if you need a break, okay?”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
She moves my hand into a new position. “Now, can you try moving like this for me? Good!”  
  
She leaves me instructions for exercises to do until our next session, for strengthening and hopefully decreasing some of the nerve pain. I’m glad I made it through without blowing up at her. It’s a close call when I smile at her and thank her for the session, and she flinches. She’s a lifelong Gothamite. She knows the Joker’s grin. She must see _it_ on my face. I see it in my mind’s eye, his lips stretched to ripping, his yellowing teeth in orderly rows, his gums red, I can smell his breath, it’s whispering in my ear, he’s too close, _please, don’t touch me, don’t— I can’t make it go away. I can’t breathe, my vision’s blurring, my body is melting, liquefying. Stop, stop, make it stop, why is this happening?_  
  
When Alfred puts a hand on my shoulder, I need to swallow hard so I don’t puke. “Very good, Master Timothy. Lunch will be ready in half an hour. I hope you will join us.”  
  
A harsh laugh comes out. I hate the sound so much I use my forearm to hit myself in the throat, choking off the sound and turning it into coughing.  
  
Alfred comes around, kneels in front of me. His brow is furrowed. “Sir, is everything alright? Did you just...punch yourself?”  
  
“Random…” I wheeze. “Spasm…”  
  
I can tell he doesn’t believe me, but I don’t really care. Instead, I shove the joystick on my wheelchair forward, ride the elevator up to my room. I’m fucking exhausted. I don’t want to join them for lunch, but if I don’t, then Alfred and Cass will worry. I’m sure Damian will enjoy himself, though, and Duke will worry but also be relieved.  
  
The sooner Daddy allows me to go home, the better, but every time I see him I want to vomit. The only good excuse I have for missing lunch at this point is a nap that I don’t want to take because of the nightmares. I wish Steph were here.  
  
Why? So you can lash out at her like always?  
  
Junior has a point. I should stop asking her to come over. Maybe Kon or Cassie or Bart are free? Though Bart still has school, and Kon and Cassie have been busy with Superman and Wonder Woman, plus their work in San Francisco. And there’s no telling what I’ll do to hurt them, too. My emotional stability has still been...iffy. Better than before, which is a good sign, I guess, but still iffy. I’d really like to go home.  
  
There’s a knock on my door. I don’t really want to talk to anyone, so I don’t answer for a while, but then there’s another knock, louder this time. I sigh. “Come in.”  
  
Kate opens the door. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”  
  
I talk while the chair slowly turns towards her. “Actually, I’m not in a great mood right now.”  
  
She invites herself in anyway, sitting at my desk chair. It’s sort of annoying, but I suppose it’s fine. If there’s anyone I wouldn’t feel too guilty about being snippy with, it’s probably Kate. She won’t take it personally. “Well, Tim, to be blunt, your mood is probably about to get a lot worse.”  
  
That could mean any number of things. My chest was still sore, and it starts throbbing again at her words. I remind myself to breathe, push against the pressure on my lungs. “What happened?”  
  
“Dick got shot. He’s stable, but we think it was an assassin.”  
  
My head starts pounding with the pressure of all my questions. I pick one. “Why?”  
  
“We don’t know.”  
  
I guess it was a silly question, considering that Dick is Nightwing. Why _wouldn’t_ he have an assassin after him at any given time? But what I really mean is that I want specifics. Where’s Dick now, who shot him and where, who hired them, what was their motive, why now, where and when was the attack, who was with him—  
  
“Where’s Da-...Bruce?”  
  
Kate eyes me for a second too long before answering. “He’s already taken off to find the assassin. Apparently he thinks he knows who it was, but he was sparse on the details.”  
  
Typical. “Where’s Dick, then?”  
  
“He almost bled out, but Jason was with him and got him to a hospital in time to save him,” Kate continues, matter-of-factly. “He’s at Dr. Thompkins’ now with Cassandra and Stephanie guarding him.”  
  
The room spins for a second, but I try to steady my head with my hand. I have to _think_ , I don’t have time to be so fucking _weak_.  
  
“Tim,” Kate says sternly. She leans forward. “We have everything under control. To be frank, we don’t need your help.”  
  
What she means is that I _can’t_ help. I’m no longer capable of it. “Right...Sorry.”  
  
She purses her lips. “Actually, what you _can_ do is talk to your stepmom. Dick will need physical therapy, and it wouldn’t hurt to have your sessions back-to-back since she’ll be coming over anyway.”  
  
“Where was he shot?”  
  
Kate draws a line across the side of her neck with a finger. “The neck. It missed all the veins and major nerves, though. Just made a gash in his mastoid.”  
  
I grimace. Ouch. “Got lucky, then? Or was it a warning shot?”  
  
“I don’t know, Tim.”  
  
“Okay…” It’s highly unlikely anyone would have that perfect aim to hit the neck but nothing important, and the position the target is in when the bullet makes contact would make all the difference— even Jay wouldn’t risk a shot like that. So probably it was an accident that Dick survived. Maybe Dick dodged it? But then again, if I had the resources and wanted to kill _Nightwing_ , then I would only hire the best of the best. So why didn’t they take a second shot?  
  
“Well, I’ll call Dana and schedule him an appointment.” I’m grateful Kate is giving me _something_ to do.  
  
“Good,” Kate nods. “I think we also need to talk about the Knights.”  
  
I remember something hazy about arguing with Daddy over it— Daddy? _Bruce._ Junior, I swear to God—  
  
“Tim?”  
  
“I’m here,” I say.  
  
“The Knights more or less fell apart after I joined Colony. I’m not sure if you remember.”  
  
I try, but my head only throbs harder. “N-not really…”  
  
“Well, Colony’s gone, now, as far as I know. The Knights reunited briefly when we found out you were missing, to search for you,” Kate explains. “I’m considering reforming it. Batwing is out for now, but Spoiler, Orphan, and Azrael are ready to rejoin.”  
  
“Kate...you can do what you think is best, but… _I_ can’t help you.” It hurts to admit it, but I can’t even think straight these days, and on top of that I’m too damn emotional to be trusted with any important decisions. With the way physical therapy went today, I’m not too hopeful I’ll ever be out there fighting again.  
  
Kate looks at me for a long time. “You’re hanging up the cape for good?”  
  
“I…I don’t know, yet.”  
  
Wishful thinking. But I don’t even know if I truly _want_ to be back out there, knowing something like what happened with Daddy could happen again. And next time, I know it’ll kill me. I can’t go through that again.  
  
_Wait, Daddy?!_ I wish I could strangle Junior, but he’s me. But he’s not. But I am. But I’m not. I wish I could strangle myself. Maybe then he’d _shut up_.  
  
_Oh,_ do _stop that annoying crying, Junior! You know by now what Daddy does to crybabies, don’t you?_  
  
Someone grips my shoulder, firmly. I look up, and it’s Kate, staring at me, her face a mask. “Tim, are you alright?”  
  
I realize I’ve been doubled over, holding my head. “Just...just a headache. I’m fine.” I straighten, but my stomach is churning. My mouth is dry.  
  
“Copy that.” Kate stands. “Get some rest, Tim.”  
  
That’s all I’ve been able to do, lately. “Yeah, thanks.”  
  
After she’s gone, I turn off the light and manage to crawl into bed, without help for once. I hate how weak I am, but even eating is exhausting lately. Just being awake is exhausting. Maybe the physical therapy wiped me out more than I thought. I take a few deep breaths, in for three counts, hold for two, out for five.  
  
A while later, Duke brings up food. I’m not hungry, but I let him leave it on my desk as though I’ll eat it eventually. I feel bad leaving it for Alfred to clean up, but just the thought of food makes my stomach hurt. I don’t want to sleep because of the nightmares, but I’m so tired. I end up dozing in and out, sitting up against my headboard. I don’t want to give Junior anything today, but he’s just laughing, using my voice. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.  
  
Playtime, Junior! I’ll show you a trick!  
  
The sound of shuffling playing cards, he spreads them in front of my eyes, the intricate patterns on the backs of the cards blurring and refocusing like a kaleidoscope.  
  
Pick a card, any card! This one, you say?  
  
I see the card, there’s a single red heart in the middle, like a drop of blood on a perfect white tablecloth, or the pupil of an eye.  
  
Tt-tt-tt. Sorry, Junior… _wrong card_.  
  
My back arches in a rainbow, lightning strikes across my vision, I must be sparking like a busted circuit, writhing like a salted slug. He’s cackling at my whimpering whines, I’ve long lost the strength to scream. Laugh at the pain, laugh, laugh, laugh...  
  
Someone sits on the edge of my bed. “Tim.”  
  
I open my eyes, and it’s Cass. I can’t seem to form any words. She continues. “You can’t sleep good. Nightmares?”  
  
There’s not a point in answering; she already knows. She kicks her shoes off and starts climbing in bed with me. “Cass…?”  
  
She lays down next to me, slips one arm beneath my neck and wraps the other gently around my body, leans her forehead against the side of my head. At first I’m a little stiff, but gradually I’m able to relax into the embrace. It’s warmer now, and the gentle pressure of her body against mine is grounding. Maybe it’s dumb, but I don’t remember the last time I felt this safe, cradled like a kid, like I’m safe even from the thoughts in my own head. Cass softly hums a lullaby, simple and sweet.  
  
For once, without worrying, I close my eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :D As always, please feel free to comment! I love hearing from y'all <3 <3
> 
> Just to say, I 100% do NOT ship Tim and Cass, so that final scene is supposed to be entirely sibling love, there will be no romance drama in this fic haha  
> I know a decent chunk of people do ship Tim and Cass, and of course no shade to those who do, but personally I prefer not to ship them because they're legal siblings. To me it just doesn't feel right to date your legal siblings, even if one or both are adopted, though I understand the argument in the other direction. It's just a personal preference I suppose, don't fault me for it :"D haha
> 
> Also, since I'm switching to updating every other week instead of every week, how helpful do y'all think chapter summaries would be? I've never written any for this or any of my other works before, so the idea is a little daunting, but if people think it'd be helpful then I'm def willing to give them a shot! :)


	16. Barbara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya folks! I'm sorry about messing up the every other week thing already?? D: Idek how but an entire week just disappeared for me :") Depression has really been kicking my butt lately but I'm going to try a new medication soon that will hopefully help.  
> Thanks for your patience, guys!! <3 
> 
> Also, there is minor discussion of religion/God in the first section of this chapter (bc of Azrael ofc, who else? lol), so I wanted to put a disclaimer that I'm Protestant, not Catholic, so if I messed up Catholic theology I'm sorry and please feel free to correct me!
> 
> Anywho, please enjoy~! :D

The doorbell rings again, and immediately Titus darts from the party to see who it is— a red and green streak in his new winter sweater.  
  
“I’ll get it, Alfred,” I say, waving to him across the room. After all, he’s still trying to convince Damian to wear the matching sweater to Titus’, and can’t interrupt that.  
  
When I open the door to the Manor, it’s Harper and Jean-Paul, wearing matching ugly Christmas sweaters even though it’s a new year’s party. I’m guessing it was Harper’s idea; Jean-Paul doesn’t have the sense of humor, though apparently he’s a good enough sport to go along with it.  
  
“Hey, Babs!” Harper cheers. “Brought the good stuff!” She holds up a bottle of wine while Jean-Paul offers his hand to the dog, who’s sniffing him suspiciously.  
  
I raise an eyebrow. “You didn’t get carded?” I would expect the wild blue hair alone to get her pegged as underage.  
  
Harper chortles. “This is _Gotham_ , come on! Besides, I got Azrael here to buy.”  
  
_That_ surprises me a little. He’s a _very_ strict Catholic; he doesn’t drink, but I guess there’s no reason he couldn’t buy alcohol for his friends. Harper’s been loosening him up a bit, maybe.  
  
Jean-Paul just shrugs at me, offering me a smile. “I hope this new year has been going well for everyone so far.”  
  
Harper rolls her eyes playfully. “Yeah, it’s been a pretty solid two days for us, anyway. Oh, and Cullen says hi, and Dr. Thompkins wanted us to wish everyone a happy new year for her.” Harper and Jean-Paul have been volunteering at her clinic for a while, now; Dr. Thompkins gave them the night off to come to our new year’s party. “Now, let’s go in and crack this baby open!”  
  
Jean-Paul looks scandalized. “You said it was for the adults only, remember, Harper?”  
  
Harper gives him a wink, and he just sighs. I laugh and lead the way back into the living area. “Don’t worry, Jean-Paul, Alfred’s supervising, so no one’s partying _too_ hard tonight.”  
  
“We’ll see about that,” Harper smirks. “Oh, hey, how’s Dick, by the way? He got discharged a few days ago but that’s the last we heard.”  
  
“He’s back at home in Bludhaven, with Jay. They didn’t want to risk getting into a car accident on the way here.” Not that Jay is a bad driver or anything, but this _is_ Gotham after all. If it’s not a regular car accident, then it could be a psycho blowing up a bridge, or a mutant monster busting up from the sewers, or even a whacko pouring six and a half tons of cottage cheese into the streets. (Dairyman was a short-lived stint, thank god, and one Dick will probably never let us forget about.)  
  
“And have we any news of the assassin?” Jean-Paul asks.  
  
“No,” I say. Bruce hasn’t contacted us since he took off, apparently to Russia. “Supposedly it’s under control, but we haven’t heard anything specific.”  
  
It’s annoying, to say the least. Any of us, all of us, would want a chance to get our hands on whoever tried to murder Dick— if there’s not much we can all agree on in this family, we at least agree that he’s important to us. But maybe that’s exactly why Bruce isn’t letting the rest of us in on it. I suppose it’s noble of him, to make sure we don’t cross the line by making sure we don’t have the option, but still, it feels like he’s underestimating us. As usual.  
  
I wish he would just _trust_ us, especially the older members of the family— me and Kate, at least, and Cass is so firmly anti-killing I’d trust her in just about any situation. I guess it’s just typical Bruce, to think he has to do everything alone.  
  
“Babs?” Harper elbows me. “Stop thinking so hard. This is a party, remember?”  
  
I smile at her. “Right. Sorry.”  
  
The three of us reach the living room then, and Harper and Jean-Paul join the party. I am very pleased to see Damian is wearing the matching sweater with Titus, now. I take a discreet picture to send to Dick. Damian will laugh at it in ten years or so, probably.  
  
Everyone else seems to be enjoying themselves, especially with Alfred’s refreshment table. With Harper and Jean-Paul here, I think that’s a wrap on the guests we were expecting, now. Alfred, Damian, Duke, and Cass were already at the Manor (though Cass and Steph are planning on an apartment downtown soon), plus me, Steph, Kate, Lucius, and Tam. Luke was busy with Fox Tech tonight, but sent his regards.  
  
Tim isn’t feeling great today, so he asked me to let him know when everyone’s arrived so he can come down briefly just to say hi, and then retreat back upstairs. He used to go to parties all the time for his parents’ company, then Wayne Enterprises, and of Bruce’s kids he was definitely the most savvy with the socialites, but I don’t know if he ever actually enjoyed the parties. Despite his introversion, he seemed to have fun at our family-only parties at least, but I understand why a party would be hard right now— it’d be more likely to exhaust him than cheer him up.  
  
I shoot him a text, and he replies that he’ll be down, soon. I grab Harper, Jean-Paul, Lucius, and Tam and let them know, since they’re the ones Tim hasn’t seen in a while. I know Tim’s been on phone calls with the Foxes, but that’s definitely not the same.  
  
Tam chews her lip. I don’t know her well, but she seems like a sweet kid, and like all of Lucius’ kids, whip-smart like their father. “Is it really bad? He always said he didn’t feel like video-chatting…”  
  
Harper purses her lips. “Steph told me it was pretty brutal.”  
  
“Yes,” Jean-Paul agrees. “She was quite distraught about Timothy’s condition...While I’d be glad to see him today, please let him know he’s under no obligation.”  
  
I told him that, too, but Tim already felt bad about the idea of not staying for at least a solid chunk of the party, so I doubt he’ll listen. I let him know via text, but sure enough he wheels into the living area a few minutes later, Ace by his side.  
  
Harper and Jean-Paul approach him first. They take his appearance well, not giving any indication that they notice at all. I guess they’ve seen all kinds of injuries at different stages of healing while working at Dr. Thompkins’ clinic, but it’s not the same as seeing a friend so sick. I’m guessing between Dr. Thompkins and Steph they’ve been kept updated enough on Tim’s condition not to be too shocked.  
  
I’m still standing with Lucius and Tam. “Dear Lord…” Lucius says under his breath, casting a glance at Tim. “Poor kid…”  
  
Tam heaves a deep sigh as Tim wheels over to us. He looks a little sheepish and I’m wondering why, but Tam answers that quickly enough. She crosses her arms. “Seriously, Tim? _This_ is why you didn’t want to Skype?”  
  
“I...um, didn’t want you to...worry…”  
  
“For God’s sake, Tim…” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “You are _still_ a hot mess, you know that?  
  
“I mean...I _was_ tired…”  
  
They chat for a bit. Tim seems calm and content, if not still a bit sheepish, so I go to grab a drink, maybe some of Alfred’s homemade sparkling apple juice.  
  
Steph is at the refreshment table, munching on a tart and staring into space. She looks tired.  
  
“Everything okay, Steph?”  
  
“Huh? Oh, hey, Babs. Yeah, everything’s fine.” She pours herself some wine, even though she’s underage. Of course, I’ve done my fair share of underage drinking, but as far as I know she swung here, so she’d better not be planning on swinging back drunk. She smirks, elbows me a little. “Hey, don’t worry, I’m not driving. Jean-Paul’s the DD for the night.”  
  
I raise an eyebrow playfully. “Does _he_ know that?”  
  
Steph shrugs, sips her wine through a mischievous smile. “He agreed to drive me home. He didn’t ask why, though.”  
  
I roll my eyes playfully. “You know, one of these days, even Jean-Paul is gonna catch on to your tricks.”  
  
She laughs, goes over to where Tim is talking with Tam and Lucius. About ten minutes later, Tim goes upstairs again, this time with Steph. The party goes on for another couple hours before we all start heading home.  
  
I walk out with Jean-Paul and Harper.  
  
“Hey, Tim looks terrible,” Harper says loudly, a little drunk. Jean-Paul links his arm in hers so she doesn’t wander off in the dark, though she’s being so loud right now I doubt we could lose track of her. “Aren’t you guys feeding him?”  
  
I wince a little. “Ah, Alfred said his appetite’s been a little poor.”  
  
Jean-Paul frowns. “I’ll pray for his appetite, too, then.”  
  
I manage a smile. Though I’m not personally religious, I do understand that aside from practical things, Jean-Paul truly believes prayer is the most helpful thing he could do. Too many people use the phrase as lip service, an excuse not to do anything helpful at all— I learned that lesson well when I got shot. But Jean-Paul is definitely the type of person to put his money where his mouth is, maybe too much so. For him, it’s not an excuse; it’s rather an invitation for us to ask anything we need from him. And when Jean-Paul says ‘anything,’ he _means_ it.  
  
“Why not just pray for miraculous healing?” Harper asks him, still talking too loudly. “You believe in that stuff, right?”  
  
“Of course,” Jean-Paul says. “And I do. But sometimes God says ‘yes,’ sometimes ‘no,’ and sometimes ‘wait.’”  
  
“But like…I just don’t get it...why would God say ‘no’?” Her voice is quieter, now. Maybe she’s talking more to herself than Jean-Paul.  
  
“I don’t know, either,” he admits. “I do know that sometimes I ask for foolish things because of my own short-sightedness, and it’s clear later on why I ought not to have had my request fulfilled. In my case, God knows when I am misguided, and so he says ‘no.’ But in Timothy’s case...it is hard to see why...”  
  
Harper hiccups a little. Her voice is choked. “Why did God let it happen at all?”  
  
It’s the question that’s honestly kept me from actively believing in a good and all-powerful God all my life. While I wouldn’t necessarily reject the idea outright, considering I’ve seen firsthand all kinds of magic and aliens and technology straight out of science fiction, I still can’t understand why a good god would let bad things happen, if he also has the power to stop it. Jean-Paul’s told me before that it’s a theological discussion still debated today, and even the most devout struggle with the question, but while it might be comforting to know I’m not the only one who wonders, it doesn’t make the question any easier to answer.  
  
“I don’t know why, Harper,” Jean-Paul says, sadly. “But it is perfectly alright to ask Him.”  
  
~~~  
  
“Class dismissed. Remember your sheets are due next Friday.”  
  
Rustling of papers, laptops snapping shut, the students file out the two doors to the lecture hall. Steph meets me in the front row, where I was sitting. In my own college classes I was never the type to sit in the front, but as the teaching assistant I don’t mind.  
  
“Alright, Babs, coffee on me, right?”  
  
“Sounds good.” I slip my bag over my shoulder and follow Steph out.  
  
Gotham U has a nice campus, open concept with lots of green areas and ornate historical architecture. Unfortunately, it’s flanked on both sides by dangerous areas, even by Gotham standards, and I’d never be comfortable outside at night unless I was wearing my suit. Still, as long as it’s before sunset, the little cafe at the corner of campus is a nice spot to wind down, even if it’s a little ways from the computer science building.  
  
“So how’ve you been lately?” I ask. We haven’t really sat down for a serious conversation since she stopped by Dad’s place— in fact, buying me coffee today is her way of thanking me for listening. Steph seems more or less back to her bubbly self, but I’m not sure how much of it’s an act.  
  
“I’m better,” Steph says. “Still worried about Tim, but...I’ve committed to staying for the long haul, no matter what.”  
  
I smile. “That’s great, Steph. I’m proud of you, for making a decision.”  
  
“Me, too.” She grins for a moment, but it disappears in the next. “Did you hear back from Bruce, yet, though?”  
  
“Not yet. Why?” I suppose I feel obligated not to act upset about Bruce’s poor communication skills. If I start complaining, all the younger members might follow suit, especially when it’s justified complaining— as with any extended family, there’s definitely a political element to maintaining the peace, and I don’t want to be the one to rock the boat.  
  
“Well, because.” Steph huffs. “He’s so focused on doing this thing for Dick— and don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great and everything that he wants to protect Dick, but— why alone? If he let us help he might not have had to go for so long.”  
  
I sigh. “Yeah. I think the possibility of losing Dick just really scared him. He didn’t want to lose any of us, too, you know?”  
  
“I mean, yeah, but…” She hesitates a moment. A muscle twitches in her jaw before she opens her mouth again. “It’s like he’s abandoning Tim.”  
  
Shit. I considered that he might be trying to avoid Tim a bit, but I didn’t take that to any further conclusion. Of course, I trust that Bruce is coming back, but Steph’s right— when it comes to emotional issues, Bruce is avoidant even when he’s physically present, and Tim might interpret him actually leaving as abandonment. After growing up with globe-hopping parents, I’m sure that’ll strike a nerve.  
  
“Is that what Tim thinks?” I ask finally.  
  
“I don’t know,” Steph says glumly. “I’m just afraid he’ll go there, you know? I mean, I think we all know Dick is Bruce’s favorite aside from Damian, but the fact he makes it so obvious is really fucking hurtful.”  
  
“Yeah, I know…” I say. I’m not sure if I’d say Bruce has favorites— I’d be more inclined to say that he relates to some of his children better than others. But that’s not what Steph’s getting at. “Has Tim asked for him or anything?”  
  
“Not really…” Steph shifts the straps of her backpack. “They were making progress though, before Bruce left. They were talking a little, like little greetings and stuff, and they even had tea together. I just...I’m pissed that Bruce would risk throwing a wrench in all of that when Tim’s worked so hard for him…”  
  
“I doubt Bruce thought it through that far, Steph…” It’s a lame excuse, always has been, but at least it’s _something_. “If Tim gets upset about it, you can at least tell him that. We all know Bruce is sort of...emotionally stunted. He probably didn’t even realize.”  
  
Steph is quiet for a moment. “Bruce doesn’t understand, Babs...He doesn’t _want_ to understand what Tim puts himself through, all for _his_ sake. Tim thinks he owes it to Bruce to work back up to how things were before, like there was _ever_ a time when Bruce treated Tim how he should.” She stares angrily at her feet. “I mean, sure, Bruce trained him and adopted him, but compared to what Tim’s done for Bruce? Tim doesn’t owe him _anything_.”  
  
“Well...I don’t think Tim sees it that way, Steph.” Of course, Tim inserted himself into Bruce’s life with the intention of helping him— saving him from the abyss of his grief over losing Jason— and he _did_ it, when none of the rest of us were able to. And then he saved Bruce again, when we all thought he was dead. I fully agree with Steph that what he’s done is more than enough, but Tim is probably thinking that Bruce taking him under his wing is worth more than any of that. “What do you think Tim should do?”  
  
“Honestly?” Steph huffs again. “After all of Bruce’s bullshit...I say, fuck ‘im. Who cares, right?”  
  
It’s sad, but it makes sense. That’s been Steph’s attitude towards her own father and her own abandonment issues for as long as I’ve known her. In a way, seeing it as so black-and-white simplifies it, makes it easier (and maybe with Cluemaster, it really is that clear-cut), but Bruce is nothing if not complicated.  
  
“I think it’s okay if Tim wants to give Bruce something. He cares about Bruce, so if that’s what Tim wants to do then that’s his decision,” I say slowly. I’m not sure Tim is in a place he can separate his self-esteem from Bruce’s approval enough _not_ to strive for it. But still, even if knowing something is different than really feeling it, it’s better to at least know. “He should just know that it’s not an obligation.”  
  
Steph huffs. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess so. But how do we convince him of _that_?”  
  
We arrive at the cafe now, a hip little shop with smoothies and sandwiches in addition to the staple coffee and bagels. Cass waves to us from a table, and Steph and I grab our coffees (and a pastry for Steph) and join her.  
  
“What’s wrong?” Cass asks us. Naturally, she noticed.  
  
“Just worried about Tim, that’s all,” Steph sighs. She peels the wax paper from her danish and takes a bite.  
  
“Why?” She doesn’t mean that there isn’t a reason to worry; she’s asking for specifics.  
  
“Do I need a particular reason?” Steph manages a smile before taking another bite of pastry. Maybe she doesn’t want to criticize Bruce in front of Cass, but if so, that’s a surprising amount of tact for Stephanie Brown. Maybe they’ve already had an argument about it or something.  
  
Cass stares at Steph for a moment, evaluating. “Tim is long. Dick is short.”  
  
Steph nearly chokes on her pastry. After she’s done coughing, she says, “Be careful with _Dick_ , Cass, remember?”  
  
Cass seems to consider. “Oh. Dick is...fast?”  
  
“No, you almost had it. _Term_ , that’s what you forgot,” Steph says. “The words are ‘long-term’ and ‘short-term.’”  
  
“Oh, yeah.” She knows the words when she hears them, obviously, but stringing them together herself is in many ways a different skill. Cass repeats them back, and Steph nods absently, blowing the steam off her coffee.  
  
So then they did argue about it already. Naturally, Cass is taking the logical route— Dick’s problem is hopefully a short-term one, while Tim’s is more long-term, so it makes sense to solve Dick’s first. Still, I have a hard time believing Cass is okay with Bruce leaving her out of his manhunt. Maybe she’s keeping it to herself in front of Steph, and if so, that’s an expected amount of tact from Cassandra Cain.  
  
The conversation moves to other things, thankfully, mostly how Steph’s classes are killing her, how Cass’ dance classes are _not_ killing her, and the rent on the new apartment that the girls found downtown, closer to Tim’s place on Crime Alley. Of course, Bruce is paying for Cass’ half of the rent, but Steph is stubbornly refusing to allow Bruce to pay for hers. She thinks she can pay for it with her fifteen an hour lab internship, but Cass disagrees.  
  
“Then _my_ apartment,” Cass smiles, pokes Steph in the shoulder. “You _sleepover visit_.”  
  
“Caaaass,” Steph whines while I laugh at her. “I can do it! Seriously, I crunched the numbers and it’s possible.”  
  
Cass grins mischievously. “With no sleep, no eat, and no school.”  
  
They bicker a bit more, even as we take the train up by the Manor. I haven’t seen Tim since the new year’s party, and with Bruce _and_ Dick out of the picture I really ought to visit more often, even though this Alejo case is really busting my chops. I’m still not sure if Dick and Tim sorted out their argument over Robin, but I’m guessing it’s at least taken a back seat since Dick was shot. Still, I won’t bring it up again, not to Tim at least.  
  
When we arrive, Alfred and Titus greet us, and we follow them to the kitchen. Tim is sitting at the small table, presumably eating dinner. I only see him from the back at first, but his shoulders are slumped and he’s leaning back in his wheelchair like a deflated balloon.  
  
“Hey, Tim.” Steph gives him a kiss on the head and sits next to him. I sit on the other side of the table while Cass starts bustling around the kitchen, probably cooking her own dinner. In preparation for her move, Alfred’s apparently been teaching her some of his recipes.  
  
Tim doesn’t look up at first, just sort of staring into his untouched porridge with a glazed expression. His face looks gaunt; the circles under his eyes seem to have gotten darker, and there’s the ghost of a smile on his lips. Probably he won’t be able to sleep well for a while longer, but I’d hoped he was at least getting some good rest.  
  
“Huh? Oh, hi.” His voice is raspy with exhaustion.  
  
“You look tired,” I say.  
  
He shrugs listlessly. “Yeah.”  
  
Steph starts to touch his arm, but he yelps at the contact and pulls his arm away. “Can you not—?! Ugh…”  
  
“What’s wrong?” Steph knits her brow.  
  
“I—it’s nothing...I’m sorry…” Tim slowly lowers his arm, staring into his lap. “I’m just...tired...”  
  
“Wanna go to bed?” Steph asks patiently.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
He doesn’t make a move to control his chair, so Steph pushes it for him. They leave the porridge on the table, and when Alfred comes in, he clucks his tongue at it.  
  
“He still hasn’t been eating well?” I ask.  
  
“I’m afraid not, Miss Gordon,” Alfred says, taking the bowl and covering it with a plate, then sticking it in the refrigerator. “He’s barely eaten all day; it’s no wonder he’s so exhausted. Even the most mild foods I can think of still hurt his stomach. I thought of returning to more intravenous nutrients, but along with that only doing so much…” Alfred sighs. “The needles are too hard for him to take, now that he’s more aware. Poor lad.”  
  
Cass pats his shoulder comfortingly, and Alfred offers her a sad smile. They start cooking something together, Titus following them around in hopes of snapping up any discarded scraps.  
  
I stand, get ready to go since I have to get to Alejo’s rally tonight. Still, I wonder if Tim’s food problem is purely a physical problem, or if there’s a mental aspect to it, too. Sometimes loss of appetite isn’t purely physical, and depression and anxiety can cause stomachaches, too. I’ll have to talk to Dr. Thompkins, though; while I’m sure Alfred’s been checking in with her frequently, hearing it firsthand from her is different than hearing something that’s already been telephoned around the family. Tim’s had a history of depression, too, so I could probably straight-out ask him what he thinks, too, when he’s feeling better, at least.  
  
For now, though, I have a Congresswoman to protect. I say goodbye to Alfred and Cass and head back to the train station. Gotta make it back home in time to change, after all.  
  
Well, maybe it’s more for more mental preparation than physical prep time. There will be a lot of cameras at the rally, naturally, so it’ll be a real test of my grit. I admit it gives me a little nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach, but I know I can do this. Gordons don’t give up, and Batgirl certainly doesn’t.  
  
_I can do it.  
  
I can do it._  
  
~~~  
  
Bruce is back.  
  
It’s pretty clear he hasn’t slept much at all, nor did he shave much, nor did he shower much. But, as always, the mission comes before self-care— he’s promised that he’s “neutralized” the assassin for now— a skilled Russian sniper called KGBeast. Though Bruce still isn’t sure who hired him, like he did with the assassin himself, he calls dibs on KGBeast’s client, too. He’s resisting giving me any details, probably because he’s afraid I’ll look into the case, too.  
  
“Bruce, let me help you.” I spread my hands in a placating gesture. “I can help you find the one who hired KGBeast that much quicker.”  
  
“I’ve got it handled, Barbara.” He’s sitting in his big swivel chair, in front of the Bat Computer, but he’s at least turned it around so he’s facing me. “I already have a lead.”  
  
I frown. “Okay, and if that dries up, I can have another one ready for you. Dick is one of my best friends, it isn’t fair—”  
  
“This is out of your depth,” Bruce snaps. “If the people involved in this go after you, too…”  
  
“I’m aware, and that’s my choice, not yours.” I cross my arms. “I’m not a kid anymore, Bruce.”  
  
“No, you’re not.” The way he says it makes it clear it’s just an empty phrase to placate me. “But your father would never forgive me.”  
  
I purse my lips. Bruce thinks this conversation is over, but I might research this on my own anyway, insert myself into the case with brute force. Obviously I trust Bruce’s detective skills, but there’s no reason I can’t offer a little support in the information department, especially when he’s so obviously been spreading himself so thin.  
  
Then again...maybe I need to remind myself not to take his refusal so personally. Maybe this is about protecting me, underestimating me, or maybe it isn’t— but I do know for sure he’s compensating. He feels like he failed Tim, so he needs to push extra hard not to fail Dick. And to prove to himself he’s not a terrible father, I guess to him it’s important that he do it alone. Do I have a right to get involved, get in the way of that? Or is this yet another scenario where I need to just trust him?  
  
“Bruce.” It’s Dr. Thompkins, arriving from upstairs. As soon as Bruce got back, he immediately called her for an update on his sons, and it looks like she’s just got here. Dick hasn’t been in her care for a while at this point, but I’ll invite Bruce along to visit Dick later, since I’m heading over to his place anyway.  
  
“Dr. Thompkins.” Bruce nods at her, then goes straight to business. “So how’s Tim doing?”  
  
Naturally, Dr. Thompkins is prepared for his brusque manner. “His weight gain has tapered off, Bruce.” She taps something on her tablet. “At least fifteen more pounds would be the _absolute_ minimum I’d recommend.”  
  
Bruce massages the bridge of his nose. “Alfred says he won’t eat. He tried the baby food, but Tim won’t eat that, either. Apparently, he just...says he’s not hungry.”  
  
“Hm.” Dr. Thompkins purses her lips, takes her glasses off. She turns to me slightly, but not so fully that she cuts Bruce out of the conversation, which is frankly gracious of her considering what she’s about to say. “And how’s his mood?”  
  
I nod. “I wanted to talk to you about that. He’s showing signs of depression. We should ask him about it.”  
  
Bruce leans forward, frowning deeply. “Depression?”  
  
For the self-proclaimed World’s Greatest Detective, it’s sort of embarrassing. “He seems to have a lot of ups and downs, but—” I tick off the symptoms I’ve seen on my fingers. “He’s fatigued, irritable, anxious, isolating himself, can’t concentrate, has memory problems. You just told me he has no appetite, and I’ve even seen him hit himself. I’m worried about self-harm when he’s alone. Plus, he’s feeling _guilty_ about what happened.”  
  
Bruce’s brow furrows.  
  
Dr. Thompkins speaks. “It’s normal to feel guilt or shame after something like this happens. Normal, but you’re right, Barbara. It sounds like depression.”  
  
“It’s Tim you’re talking about, right?” Kate stalks in, joining us from the shadows. She crosses her arms. Uh-oh, she’s gonna tell him. “I should tell you, Bruce, I told him about Dick while you were gone.”  
  
Instantly, Bruce stands. “We agreed not to tell him!”  
  
“We can’t just treat him like he’s made of glass forever, Bruce,” Kate argues. “He’s not an idiot. Dick has stopped hanging around, so he’d eventually have noticed and wondered why. If you ask me, I saved you from the shitshow if he had to confront us about Dick’s whereabouts later. He took it well, anyway.”  
  
_Have a little faith in him, Bruce._ I know he just wants to protect Tim, but I would really think he’d know by now that secrets only push us away. Especially those of us who prize information. I still need to talk to him about telling Tim who shot the Joker, but I don’t think Bruce is ready for that conversation, yet. I still don’t know what I think the best course of action would be...I’d rather Tim not know for all of our sakes, but I’m not sure that’s fair to him. Plus, I’m afraid Tim will remember on his own.  
  
Kate continues. “And there was something else, too. Stephanie has been pushing me to restart the Knights, for his sake, so I agreed. We thought casework might be good for him, take his mind off everything, give him some way to feel useful.”  
  
Dr. Thompkins sighs. “Or cause unnecessary strain at a delicate time.”  
  
“What did he say?” Bruce asks, ignoring the doctor.  
  
“He’s lost his confidence, Bruce.” Kate runs a hand through her short hair. “He said he can’t help.”  
  
I’m not so sure the Knights are a good idea anyway. I’ve already talked to Tim about the Knights, but he doesn’t seem to recall that the entire team was a setup for Bruce to get closer to Kate, and that Bruce used and lied to Tim to do it. I doubt Tim will take _that_ too well if he remembers it, since he was pretty hurt about it when I forced Bruce to admit it the first time. No, the Knights are only a monument to how manipulative Bruce can be, and that he’s willing to take advantage of Tim to achieve his own ends. If Steph had known about that, she definitely wouldn’t have encouraged Kate to restart it.  
  
“No, the Knights aren’t a good idea for him,” I say. “Actually, I don’t think Bruce should be in charge of Tim at all.” I know it’s harsh, but he needs to hear it. “He was flying more or less solo before you stuck him on the Knights, and doing fine with that. More importantly, if you can’t believe in him, maybe he shouldn’t be under your jurisdiction.”  
  
Bruce opens his mouth to protest, but Kate cuts him off. “You’re too close to him to see this objectively, Bruce.” She looks at me. “But Barbara, it’s not that Bruce doesn’t believe in Tim. It’s that he cares too much, wants to protect Tim when maybe he doesn’t need the protection.” I could argue that maybe that’s just Bruce’s euphemism for underestimation and/or keeping his assets close, always has been, but that’s another battle to fight, so I let Kate continue. “Are you suggesting we form a new team?”  
  
“Tim already has one.”  
  
Bruce is looking at me like I have five heads. “The Teen Titans? He’s hardly a teenager anymore, Barbara.”  
  
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, and the other former Titans grew up, too, Bruce.”  
  
Finally, he gets it. “Superboy, Wondergirl, and Impulse...Yes, maybe that’s a good idea. They seem...concerned about Tim, too.”  
  
I’ve already talked to Superboy, and he asked me what I thought of Tim moving in with him and Wondergirl somewhere nearby. Superboy’s always been one to butt up against Batman’s authority, but as far as he’s concerned, Bruce has really screwed this one up considering Tim is, for whatever reason, terrified to talk to him. I don’t think it’s totally reasonable, but without the Joker alive to funnel some of the blame onto, Superboy’s resorted mostly to blaming Bruce. Then again, it’s not like Bruce _isn’t_ to blame for the rift in his relationship with Tim; Bruce’s explanation is brainwashing by the Joker, and while that’s probably partly true, it’s also true that on a bad day, his sons are afraid of him, brainwashed or not. Tim’s already expressed fear that Bruce will be angry with him for telling the Joker our secrets; if Bruce would just _say_ he’s not upset with Tim, _say_ Tim doesn’t owe Bruce anything, it would go a long way. But somehow, Bruce finds that scarier than fighting homicidal criminals and talented assassins.  
  
“They’re really loyal friends, Bruce, and good people,” I say. “We can trust them, for sure.”  
  
Bruce nods slowly. “Yes, that sounds good, then…”  
  
Dr. Thompkins sighs in defeat. “Alright. But make _sure_ they know he’s not to strain himself like he usually does. His body can’t take long nights and busy days like it used to.”  
  
“Yes, of course.” Bruce hammers out a few more details with Dr. Thompkins, and Kate approaches me.  
  
“You’re good, Barbara.”  
  
“Uh, pardon?”  
  
Kate juts her chin at Bruce. “He’s difficult on a good day. You know how to wrangle him.”  
  
I shrug. “Been working with him over a decade at this point. Honestly, I wish I was better at it, but he’s stubborn.” I touch her arm. “But thanks for telling Tim about Dick, Kate. You have a...unique position with Bruce. He’ll forgive you for things he wouldn’t take from the rest of us.”  
  
It’s annoying, but I guess I understand. For Bruce, Kate is the last living memento of his mother he has left— it would hurt bad to lose her. I try not to hold it against him, because I know behind the machismo, money, and masks, he’s still trying to protect that little boy who had to watch his parents die. It’s always a delicate balancing act, empathy for him versus unending frustration, and I hate how often I mess it up.  
  
After Dr. Thompkins leaves, Bruce and I get into one of his cars and head over to Bludhaven. We’re quiet at first, but I don’t want to sit in awkward silence the entire time.  
  
“Hey, why don’t you be the one to tell Tim about re-forming his team?”  
  
Ever so slightly, his grip tightens on the steering wheel. “He...still doesn’t want to talk to me, Barbara.”  
  
“I know,” I say. “But you want to, don’t you?”  
  
He’s quiet for a while. “Of course I do. But I don’t want to...to hurt him…”  
  
“Well, have you guys been working towards talking at all?” I try not to sound too accusatory.  
  
“Before I left, just a little...‘Good morning,’ ‘See you later,’ only things like that,” Bruce says glumly. “We had tea time with Alfred and Ace once, but he looked so...He wouldn’t stop smiling.”  
  
“But he _stayed_ , Bruce. He had tea with you guys. That’s major progress!” We’re at a red light, so I put a hand on his arm, but his eyes stay trained on the road. “Remember when we first found him, he couldn’t even _look_ at you. I know it hurts, and I know it seems like things are moving at a snail’s pace, but you need to understand that that’s _huge_. You’ve just gotta be patient.”  
  
He’s quiet for another moment. “You’re right, Barbara. I’ll try to tell him myself.” A few minutes later. “Thank you.”  
  
When we arrive at Dick’s, Dick just yells for us to come in. Good to hear he’s able to talk without too much pain, now. Unfortunately, I haven’t had the time to visit more than twice over the past week.  
  
I feel Bruce staring when I pull out the key to Dick’s apartment on my own key ring, but he doesn’t say anything— thankfully, he’s always kept as far away as he can from our love lives. Not that what Dick and I have now is a _love life_ , per se, but it definitely used to be, and to this day I am grateful that Bruce never showed a drop of interest in what we were up to, as long as it didn’t interfere with work.  
  
I walk right in once I have the door open. “Hey, Dick!” He’s sitting on the couch, and I hug him gently so I don’t hurt him. “How’re you feeling?”  
  
“Better.” He grins. He looks tired, and he’s still wearing the neck brace, but other than that he seems alright. The bandages around his neck are freshly changed. “Thanks, Babs.”  
  
Bruce is standing awkwardly near the door, which he closed behind him but barely came any further into the apartment. He coughs awkwardly. “Um, I got the guy…”  
  
“Yeah, I heard,” Dick says, also slightly awkwardly. “I appreciate it, Bruce.”  
  
I study them both. Oh my God. They still haven’t made up after whatever tiff they had _months_ ago. I swear, they can be the most dramatic people I know sometimes. That, or it was serious. I hope not, but I’d be lying if I said Bruce has been acting totally reasonable lately. He’s either full of latent aggression, or sad and tired.  
  
“Oo, I’ve gotta use the bathroom,” I lie, putting a hand on my stomach. “Lady problems.”  
  
Bruce clears his throat awkwardly (It’s a wonder sometimes how this man gets so many women swooning over him; it’s gotta be the money), but Dick just winces sympathetically and gives me the okay. That should give them some time to clear the air.  
  
I wonder where Jay is; I know he’s supposed to be helping Dick out, and from the sudden cleanliness of the apartment and Dick’s freshly changed bandages, it seems like he’s been here recently. And yup, the bathroom is also spotless, so Jay was definitely here; Dick can honestly be a slob, especially with the state of his shampoo bottles and soaps, which are now neatly arranged in his shower with all their caps screwed on. Maybe Jay heard Bruce was coming and left; they’ve _also_ been having a tiff, still about what happened months ago with Penguin, as far as I know. They’ve agreed to a truce for Tim’s sake, but I guess that doesn’t mean they’re on speaking terms.  
  
I give Dick and Bruce a few minutes before emerging from the bathroom, and sure enough, the air seems a little clearer. It’s still a little awkward, since Bruce is now stiffly sitting on the couch with Dick, but better than before. I’ll ask Dick what happened later.  
  
“You okay, Babs?” Dick asks.  
  
“Yeah, much better, now, thanks.” I glance around the apartment one more time. “Where’s Jay?”  
  
“Oh, he stepped out for some air,” Dick says. His laptop is open on the coffee table, and it looks like he was watching the news. “I made one too many puns and he had to take a breather.”  
  
I raise an eyebrow. “Wow, that bad, huh?”  
  
“That _good_ ,” Dick laughs.  
  
“Let’s see how your groceries are doing,” I say, opening the fridge. It’s fully stocked, and there are a variety of different colored smoothies already prepared. It looks like Jay is taking good care of him; surprisingly, out of all Bruce’s sons, Jay is the only one who can really cook. “Wow, looks like Jay’s got you covered, huh?” I want to make a point of it in front of Bruce.  
  
“I haven’t eaten this well since the Manor!” Dick jokes. Seems like he wants to make a point of it, too. “Though he banned Lucky Charms until I’m better.”  
  
I roll my eyes. “Uh-huh. I noticed he cleaned your bathroom, too.”  
  
Dick chuckles. “Yeah, I told him he didn’t have to touch it but he insisted on alphabetizing my hair products. Who am I to refuse?”  
  
Bruce grunts. “It...sounds like you two are doing well, here.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dick says. “Maybe I should hire him as my personal maid.”  
  
“Hm, does Officer Grayson have the salary for that?” I ask.  
  
“Trueeee. Bummer!” He winces a little.  
  
Bruce reaches for him instinctively, but draws his hand back before they touch. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Oh, you know, just a little gunshot wound.” Dick smiles, but it turns into a small grimace. “Painkillers are just wearing off, don’t worry, Bruce.” His phone makes a chirping sound. “Aaaand that’s Jay reminding me to take my next dose. Grab it off the counter, Babs?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
His medicine is neatly lined up in plain view, so I find what he needs easily. I read the dosage off the label and give him the pills, along with a glass of water. I notice a box of straws on the counter, so I stick one in his water.  
  
After he takes the pills, he leans back on the couch. “So, how’s Tim?”  
  
We give him the updates from Dr. Thompkins, and he agrees that it’s a good idea to ask Superboy and Wondergirl to move in with Tim.  
  
“You can hardly keep metas out of Gotham anymore, Bruce.” Dick raises his eyebrows. “You’ve got one living under your roof, now.”  
  
Bruce grunts. “Yes. Clark has already asked me about Conner moving into Gotham. I have yet to respond, but...I suppose if it’s for Tim, then I’ll allow it.”  
  
I exchange a glance with Dick. On one hand, we’re glad Bruce is choosing not to make a stink about this, but on the other...it’s unlike him that his main reason for letting Superboy and Wondergirl move into the city is personal instead of principle. Helping Tim recover is a great reason, of course, but I’m hesitant about letting Bruce run around the city alone when his mind might not be as organized as it usually is. Dick is obviously out of commission for a while, Steph tells me she and Cass have been partnering up and Steph is definitely not open to working with Bruce right now, Duke is still day shift only, and it’s not like I can just drop all my cases to work with Bruce. Especially the Alejo case is too important for the city for me to just abandon it.  
  
I sit on Dick’s other side so that I’m not standing, which might appear aggressive when Bruce is still sitting. “Bruce, what do you think of letting Damian back out there?”  
  
Dick either catches on immediately, or empathizes with Damian. Probably both. “Yeah, poor kid’s bored out of his mind. And that detention? Pretty sure Robin was an important outlet for him.”  
  
Bruce frowns. “Detention? No one told me about that, yet.”  
  
Dick smirks slightly. “Yeah, his history teacher said something wrong, apparently, and he kept correcting her.” The smile drops. “But Bruce...I think Damian needs things to go back to some semblance of normal, now. He was holding it together for _you_ , but...I’m pretty sure what happened to Tim really scared him, and then this happens with me...” He gestures slightly to the neck brace.  
  
Bruce’s frown deepens. “I see…” He nods to himself. “You’re right, both of you. I’ll let Damian back into the field.”  
  
“Good. But Bruce…” Dick puts a hand on Bruce’s forearm. “You’re still worried something will happen to him, right? That’s why you benched him in the first place. You sure you’ll be okay?”  
  
Bruce looks at Dick a moment, then sighs, leans his elbows on his knees. “I’ll just have to remember...out there, he’s my partner, not my son.”  
  
It’s important not be distracted of course, but hearing the sentence from Bruce’s mouth is a little irksome. “As long as you remember that when you’re back at home, he’s your son and not your partner.”  
  
Bruce smiles thinly at me. “Yes...you’re right, Barbara.”  
  
“She always is,” Dick says, elbowing me slightly.  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
Bruce clears his throat and stands. “Well, I’d better get back. The crooks have probably been wondering where I’ve been.”  
  
“I dunno,” Dick says. “You look beat.”  
  
“I’m fine,” Bruce says tersely.  
  
“You haven’t even shaved,” Dick points out. “Take the night off, huh, Bruce? You deserve it after taking care of KGBeast for me. Did you say hi to Damian and Tim, yet?”  
  
For the love of— I want to tell Dick not to push it any further; Bruce is starting to get short and pressing his inadequacy with the younger boys isn’t going to help, but surprisingly, Bruce reigns it in on his own.  
  
“You’re right,” he says. “I’ll take the night off.”  
  
After we say goodbye to Dick, Bruce and I head out to the car. Still, Bruce is walking a little too briskly, more like Batman’s menacing stride than Bruce Wayne’s nonchalant gait. I’m sure now that he lied about taking the night off just to avoid arguing with Dick. I guess it’s something that he wanted to avoid an argument, but it’s still worrisome that his only method of stress relief is punching criminals. At the same time, though, I’m not about to press things any further. Besides it being pointless in the first place, Bruce has already budged a lot tonight— asking him to compromise further might endanger the progress we’ve already made.  
  
We drive in silence for a while.  
  
He seems to pick up on the awkwardness once the drive is almost over. “So...how was Alfred’s new year’s party?”  
  
“We missed you,” I say lightly. “And Dick couldn’t make it, either, so it wasn’t as lively as usual.” We stop at a red light, and I show him the picture of Damian and Titus in matching sweaters. “Alfred somehow convinced Damian to wear it.”  
  
Bruce’s lip twitches. He turns his attention back to the road as the light turns green again. “Now how did he manage that, I wonder?”  
  
“Beats me.”  
  
He pulls up at the nearest Gotham train station, per my request. The flickering light of a streetlamp strobes over his face— to my contracted pupils, he’s alternately hidden in shadow and harshly overexposed.  
  
Bruce nods to me. “Take care, Barbara.”  
  
I open the car door, step out with one foot. “You, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Babs has unexpectedly become one of my favorite characters to write?? I've been reading more stuff from her days as Oracle, and I have to say I miss how she used to be written :") I enjoy Batgirl (2016) well enough, esp the art, but Babs seems to have had a much more established personality in the older stuff and they weren't stretching so much to make her #relatable. Personally, I feel like I had a lot more in common with 90's Babs— she had very strong leadership skills, resourceful, very logical, didn't let her personal feelings get in the way of her decisions, but still wasn't cold or callous. (Though how confident she was flirting is definitely not like me haha) It's kind of interesting what changes they made to her character in order to supposedly orient Batgirl (2016) more towards a younger, female readership; what they think girls wanna read is at least not what I necessarily want to read haha
> 
> I also considered putting DickBabs into this fic; while I ultimately decided I don't have room for it, it's def my fav ship for both Dick and Babs (sorry, Kori :"o). What are y'all's fav Batfam ships? :O
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading, and as always please feel free to leave a comment! :) The feedback really helps me gauge how the story is going haha


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